My Oceans Were Lakes

6

(None of this has anything to do with the actual plot of the story, I just wanted to write it all down and it ended up in here.)

I just don't understand.

Why do people love each other so much, just to be let down? Why do people care so much, just to be pushed away?

Why do people think it's not okay, a sin if you will, to physically harm yourself to try to harm the monster inside?

The monster is the cause. People think it's because you're insane. I'm not insane.

The monster on the inside is what makes me this way.

"We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside of us."

"As we got older, the monsters crept from under our beds to inside our heads."

The monster makes my skin itch, crave the feeling of the sharp metal piercing it. It makes me wonder if this is all worth it in the end. Life. Is it all worth it?

"Death is God's way of saying 'you're fired'. Suicide is people's way of saying 'I quit'."

Would it be so bad if I left? Would it really matter?

Does it matter if I let myself destroy my skin just to know I'm alive? To make sure I'm not numb? To feel something, even if it's pain?

"I hurt myself today to see if I could feel. I focused on the pain, the only thing that's real."

People are stunned when they find out. Why? It's my body, my pain. I cause the pain to myself, on purpose, there's no reason to get mad at me for doing it.

"Every scar has a story behind it."

"You know my name, not my story."

My story isn't one of the worst, I know that. There's rape, abuse, ect. I have a great life compared to all that. But, I'm still sad, depressed, suffering silently.

"And one day, I was just.... sad."

I was bullied. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

I pushed people away.

I'm depressed.

I don't remember becoming depressed and sad. It just... happened.

I remember when I was little, not a care in the world. Just waiting for the next day's adventures to roll around. I wanted so bad to grow up, to be able to do what I wanted and to be the happiest person in the world.

But that's not reality.

"Remember when we were kids and we couldn't wait to grow up?.... What the hell were we thinking?"

I wanted so bad to be on my own and to have a happy life.

But life isn't always happy. It hardly ever actually works out like that.

Fairy tales and happy endings don't exist anymore.

Only in books and movies, aka, the fictional world, far away from us.

Those only existed when we were little, now we just hope and wish for them.

We wish to be happy, for it all to work out. But inside, deep inside, we know it won't.

We know we'll only end up putting that blade back to our skin, holding the lighter to ourselves, laying our hands forcibly on our bodies, banging our heads to try to make sense of everything, ending our pain.

Ending our pain, putting the gun to our head, slicing deep with sharp metal, drinking until we're gone, swallowing pills, jumping, running in front of that car, tying that final noose.

We can't always choose how everything happens, but we can choose if we want to end all of that. We can choose how. We can even choose when.

I can choose when, and now sounds like a damn good time.