Life Journal of Monroe Markie

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Sometimes I don't like how I'm even alive. I have friends who succeeded in suicide, yet wanted me to live. No, made me promise to live. I don't see how it's fair, when they promised to stay alive. It's not that I'm weeping or crying that they're gone, it's been years yet I still act as if they're alive. I'd name my most precious plush toys after them, talk to them as if they're still alive.

Sometimes I wonder if my life is truly valued or appreciated. I make promises, to stay alive. But that's stupid and pointless, because they'd still be suicidal and I wouldn't know what to do other than nod. I'm in a situation that threatens my own life, right now. The police couldn't help, reasons I couldn't share. Of course, I still want to die. The feeling is still there, even if I have people wanting me to live. Then again, why did they get to die, yet I've been living. It's been five years, I've been doing my best to remain sane yet I doubt I'd have a future from everyday, that I've got no motivation to even breath let alone glance at that razor. I'd feel like those plushies and toys I take care of pretty well, sitting still and I feel like a mannequin. Some days are a bliss, yet I'd feel like a goose who's watched her own eggs get broken down, with an exception that those eggs are my own will, motivation, myself. I hate myself, I've been hating myself since I was young and if you keep telling me to love myself, I'll hate me more. My face, my voice, my body, words or anything are not going to make me love me, that I'd rather this soul wasn't ever born at all.