Except there'd have to be someone to clean up the blood, or cut down the body. and then the people who would be confused, my family who would be forced to mourn, and plan my funeral, and generally be confused how i could have gone so awry, been so stupid as to do this, because "there is always a way out" and "it will always get better", and then i'd become a story, like all the rest. "pretty, liked young girl with great grades, always polite and quiet and turns in her work, who had so much going for her, has committed suicide."
and then they're going to go deeper, and discover that i was not shy and really quiet pleasant and smart and a good listener and friend, that i was actually the shittiest person ever, depressed, never happy, tired, hopeless, lost, crying only when no one was around, with thoughts that occasionally wandered to the big bottle of her old grandmother's acetaminophen, or cliffs, or nice lakes to sink down into. she was really shitty, too, she refused to admit things to someone who cared and put up with so much bullshit, and she could never understand why. she hated herself and could not ever understand why some people didn't hate her (or maybe they did, she was never sure), she felt guilty for being happy, whenever she was, and did not feel she deserved it. she did not think there was ever going to be a way out, a way to redeem herself to these people, ever, because she was so ashamed, and embarrassed, because once you really watched her, she did not make any sense at all.
