So. I want to die.
Yeah, I did that on purpose. To catch your attention, to beg for it, in hopes that someone will finally say the right thing and I'll feel better about myself. Finally.
I was abused. It feels like a long time ago. It feels like yesterday. I was hurt. In this moment, I feel like I need to label the hurt. I have been conditioned to believe that the word "abuse" needs a definition or it makes it invalid. I was emotionally bruised. I was mentally ruined. I was sexually damaged.
At 14, when every little girl decides she's grown up, I met someone that took advantage of me. And he continued to do so until I was 18.
I joined the site shortly after and it helped me bandaid the wounds he left behind. For a time. See, the fun thing about trauma is that it doesn't go away when you ask it nicely to.
Still, I kept quiet. I tried my best to do exactly what he taught me- tell no one.
But I reached a breaking point, and I started talking. Slowly, to my most trusted humans. And then I outstretched from there.
My best friend stopped speaking to me after I told her. She did exactly what I imagined people would do if they knew. I can't look at her now. I don't know if she knows how much she hurt me.
She was one of the few people here that I allowed into my life. As much as I allow anyone into my life.
And now she's gone.
I want to die.
Not all the time, just most of the time. The times I'm not at work. The times I'm not drinking to forget. The times I'm not fucking to go numb. The times where I'm not directly doing something to make me feel good.
I want to die.
I can feel my blood. I feel it's hot. I feel it moving. I feel like I could dip my hands into my skin and pull. I want to turn my entire body inside out. I want to take away everything. I imagine how it would feel to feel everything and nothing at once.
I have to wonder if it's an improvement.
I know it's not.
I'm lucky, I think. Because I can differentiate between the feeling of wanting to die and who I actually am. Yes, I feel that way now. But tomorrow I will wake up. I'll go to work. I'll see my clients, I'll fall into routine. My assistant managers will come in, they'll smile when I tell them I'm happy to see them. She will tell me something dumb she did. He will say something snarky, I'll flirt back. It'll feel right.
I'll drive home, listening to a podcast. I'll spend my Friday night reading. I'll sip my rum and coke. I'll imagine what it must be like to be young and free and reckless. I'll be in bed by 10:00.
I want to die, but I'm too busy.
There's too much to do.
Too many people who rely on me.
I can't stop, I can't even slow down.
I feel jealous of the people who can say they are hurt. Openly, freely, as if it's not a sign of vulnerability. As if there is no stigma behind their feelings.
I wish I could do that. I wish I could say to someone "this is how I feel" and not feel like a failure. Even writing this, I had to say it in a passive post. I'm not telling anyone how I feel, no. That would be insane. Instead, I'm telling everyone. To lessen the blow.
I guess, if I'm being honest, I don't want to die at all.
I want to live.
I just want to feel alive again.