We're Both Broken

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*trigger warning*

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We're Both Broken

December 5th was a particularly rough day. All days were really rough for me, but this day specifically was the worst. I was doing nothing at home and let me have a whole day alone with my dark thoughts. 

I felt sick to the stomach.

I felt dizzy.

I felt lethargic.

I felt tired.

I felt drained.

I felt empty.

I just felt like going to bed already at two in the afternoon (even though I woke up at ten) and sleeping until the next day. But I shouldn't do that because it would make me feel even worse. So I stayed up.

They say to do the things that make you feel happy, but the problem was that I didn't feel like doing any of those things. I lost interest in them. They didn't make me feel happy anymore. They didn't matter to me. 

I tried doing those things anyway, but they just made me feel a whole lot worse.

I used to love baking. So I tried to make cookies because chocolate chip cookies with actual chocolate bars were my favourite but I got so annoyed and frustrated when I ended up dropping the whole cookie batter on the ground.

Then when I tried to do some reading, but my mind was too busy that I was stuck on the same page for twenty minutes. So I eventually gave up.

And when I tried listening to music, I ended up playing a very sad and depressing playlist. I cried for two hours straight for no apparent reason.

And I couldn't think of anything else that I used to love doing so I just gave up altogether and just sat on my sofa staring at a blank wall. I would have called my friends but I didn't feel like bothering my them with my problems. And I didn't even bother thinking about calling my family because they never understood what it was like to live with depression.

I felt done.

I felt absolutely done with the world.

I felt done with life.

When the thought came to my mind, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It felt like it was glued to the front of my thoughts, unable to go away. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the right idea. Because what was I doing with my life anyway?

I was living by myself. I never had a boyfriend before and it didn't look like I was going to have one anytime soon.

I was lonely. All I ever did was spend time with myself 24/7 and I was sick of it. 

I was doing something that I hated doing. I was studying to become a doctor even though the pure thought of blood made me sick to the stomach. It was my parents' doing.

I was unhappy with who I was. I hated my body and I hated my personality. I felt like a big fat failure and I felt like there was nothing that I could have done to fix it.

Killing myself just seemed like the perfect solution.

I took a deep breath as I finally made up my mind. I went into my bedroom and sat at my desk. I grabbed a pen with my shaky hand and put a small stack of lined paper in front of me.

And I started writing. I wrote to my mum first. Then my dad. Then my older brother. Then my best friend abroad in the United States.

While writing these letters I kept hearing a banging noise against my wall. It frustrated me to no end since it distracted my thinking. I also heard someone making some noises and it disgusted me when I finally put two and two together.

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