Master of death, master of my heart

sorry

Dear Followers, Friends, girlfriend, and random readers,
I'm honestly sorry for my long absences but there are things you cannot help. Like when your dad confiscates your tablet for 2 years, and then you're not actually allowed onto the internet, but you sneak on anyways.

Yep. It's a daily struggle.

But the real reason this chapter is called I'm Sorry is because of the issues I'm going to address in here. If you don't like deep shit, or triggering subjects, I suggest you turn back now.

So, those of you who stayed,
I will be addressing depression. I will be addressing the subject of death. I will be addressing the subject of self harm. And anything in between could be mentioned too.

Depression.
It's a word people use a lot with out thinking, and I know that sometimes its just for emphasis, or sometimes because the person couldn't find another word at the time. I get that, and that's okay, carry on. I don't mind and I'm sure other people don't. Some people do, but that's their opinion.

But real depression. It's different. It's hard, and it's dark. For those of you who don't understand this because you're not dealing with this, here's a description in terms that you can (hopefully) understand.

Think of it as a voice. A very mean voice. A very sad voice. One that criticises every little thing you do, or say. When you breathe. When you force a smile. It's there laughing away because it's slowly driving you to the edge. The age of what? Life. It keeps going until you're gone. It keeps going until there's nothing left to fight for. It tells you that everything you do is bad, it's not good, and you'll never get it right, because, let's face it, you're not right. It laughs when you cry, and it cries when you're not crying. It cries, and tells you that you should cry.  You should cry over how stupid you are.

It's not an easy thing to deal with. And here I am, dealing with it. But then again, am I dealing with it? Let's just think for a second. Okay. This voice, if you will, has driven me to the corner of my mind where I know there's no escape. Not unless drastic measures are taken And I think you know what they are.

But no. No. No, no, no. I tell myself that I can keep this up and I can fight it, but then it comes back and I break down even more than ever. Nobody thinks to look beyond the surface, do they? I'm glad they don't. If they did, they'd see a mess, duelling with another mess. One mess is trying to escape, so then it picks up a blade, and looks at it.

self harm
Not the nicest of subjects, is it? It's a thing most people ignore, and I don't think many people actually care much about it. Not until it affects them. I've been there. On both sides. The one doing it, and the one watching it happen. I know how useless and hopeless you can feel when someone you know rolls up their sleeve, or trousers ect, and shows you a collection of little, and big cuts. Perfectly straight lines of red across skin that was previously unharmed. Perfectly straight lines of blood that tell a story of pain. And darkness.

And I know what it's like to hold the blade in your hand, to look at it, disgusted, but at the same time, loving it. I won't lie to save someone's ass. I love to hold that blade in my hand because it gives me a feeling of control. It makes me feel a little more alive when the cold metal presses against my skin, and glides across, leaving behind a trail of broken skin, and broken dreams, and blood. I find myself watching blood ooze from the cuts, mesmerised by how it slowly trickles down. (666 words I'm sorry I had too.) Trust me, I know. No, nobody thinks what you think. But the chances are somebody knows what you think. Even if they don't understand, doesn't it feel nice that somebody knows? Because, for me, it does. No, I don't like that my little sister was the first to find out, and no, I hate that she had to see how broken I am. No, I don't like that I almost break down everyday, and I hate it that when I get home I go straight upstairs, away from the people who care, but I can't help it. I need to be alone. But I hate being alone, because that means silence, and that means thoughts. You know what that means? Another round of fights with myself. The feeling of cutting myself gives me a little rush and its those little rushes that keep me going. The second I fall out of routine and don't do it, like when I went 2 months (or was it one?) and I ended up curled up in the corner of my bedroom, terrified of what's next. But one thing doesn't scare me anymore. And that is death.

Death
I know. I should probably just write the word out, but I just can't bring myself too do it. I feel like if I actually said it, or even thought it, the realisation would be too much. I want to take it. I want to go. I want to leave. And I know other people do as well. If that's one of you still reading, You are not alone. Nobody is. And sometimes that all you need to hear. Sometimes all you need to hear is someone telling you that, Hey, you've come this far, so surely you can tho a little further, right? Go a little further, for me. For us. For the people who care, and for the people who don't care- well, you can tell them that they're heartless, and don't understand. Tell them that you don't care what they think, (Blurryface might, but that's a different story. Sorta.) And that you never will, even if you secretly do. Honestly, what they thing is irrelevant. What matters is what you think and what the people who do care think. That's the most important thing. And it's not wrong to ask for help. It's not wrong to show what's going on inside. It never will be.

Stay alive.
For the people who care.
For me.
For everyone.
Most importantly,
Stay alive for yourself.