What's Going To Kill Me

I wish I could say my depression was something like you see in movies. 

The kind where the beautiful girl sits alone and cries while everyone around her is puzzled because they all know how beautiful and important she is. 

Where all of her pain and tears become laughter and smiles. 

Tragic, but curable.

 My depression is ugly and hopeless.

 It's sitting awake in a dark room at four in the morning with nothing but your thoughts while the walls close in on you.

 It's crying in the shower so no one knows or asks questions.

 It's hearing "just be happy" like you haven't tried. 

It's breathing a sigh of relief when the blade finally slides across unmarked patches of skin and watching beads of blood bloom in a perfect little line. 

It's finding comfort in the darkest of moments because maybe, just maybe, someone else will feel the way you do for a while. 

It's living everyday in a hell you can't escape because your own mind created it. 

My depression isn't the kind of thing that people romanticize. 

It's the kind of thing that if others could experience it would wish I were gone just as much as I do.

It's what's destroyed me.

It's what's going to kill me.

Death Wish

I've never thought very highly of death

It's so permanent and uncertain.

But I find myself thinking of it more and more often

I fantasize about how my blood would feel slipping out of my veins

Across my pale, scarred skin.

About how my vision would pulse in and out with my ever fading heartbeat

How I might finally feel relief,

How I might feel worse,

How I might not feel anything at all.

And all of those possibilities terrify me, yet I can't help but romanticize it.

I want to experience a moment where I'm consumed by only one thought.

One moment that is purely about me and how I feel.

Not about tomorrow's problems,

Not someone else and their feelings.
Just me and whatever death holds...

Venting

As night approaches, so does my anxiety. You see, when the excitement of the day dies down and I am left alone with my thoughts, things get complicated, scary even.

I feel like I'm going to explode. The constant urge...desire...need, to scream rises and I get restless. I can't explain how it feels, not really. And I don't know what exactly is causing it. My life is by no means bad. Difficult? Sure, but whose isn't?

I just don't know what to do because I feel like it's getting worse by the day and I'm scared to ask for help. Afraid of what they'll say and the judgements that will be passed. I'm worried that everything is going to change if I let someone in. I'm terrified, that if I do say something, if I do get help, that there won't be any problem. Maybe it's just me, overreacting or creating... Fuck. Does that even make sense? I'm scared of losing the few people I have due to whatever issues I may have. Issues that if I could fix and control I would.

It's just hard, I guess. Staying strong is hard, and sometimes painful, but I do, because I cling to the hope that things are going to get better, no matter how bad they appear to be right now.
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My mind is just about bursting at the seams and that inescapable urge to scream and the unsettling thoughts that I failed to mention, have followed me into the sunlight. I'm not doing well and I'm actually considering asking for help. Even if things do change. I just can't stand being plagued by my own mind anymore.

Outwardly, everything appears to be fine. I've even managed to fool myself on the rare occasion that my mind is quiet, but I'm a mess on the inside. I don't know how to clean it up and I can't say I think it would be fair to drag someone else into it, throwing them into drama unnecessarily.
And so here I stand; at a crossroad between my mental health and others.

Fuck!