“Driving along at night from a friend’s house, I look onto the black street in front of me running up this canyon. Slow, sad music plays softly from the car stereo. Looking in the rear-view mirror at the darkly sparkling water of the river, I feel an internal tug in that direction. I wonder what it would be like to drive my car into the river and just sit until it swallows me. Let the air from out of my lungs and sink to the bottom. Watch the light from the surface fade the same way the light from my life did. Maybe look over and see a steelhead or even a sturgeon swim by.
Maybe it might be peaceful.
I snap out of it and put on my blinker as I head up the exit ramp. I can’t do that no matter how much I want to. I have a family, a few friends, and a boyfriend. I don’t have the heart to let any of them down like that.
Sometimes I wish that I could wake up and one day they all hate me. Then I could be at peace and they wouldn’t be hurt by it.
If you haven’t gathered already, hi, I’m Name and I’m depressed. I’m going into my fourth year (the start of this being the summer of 2015) of being that horrible word. Hopefully this will be the last year of that; although, it probably won’t.
I try not to show it on the outside for the sake of others. So, in turn of all this pent up emotion, not many showers are had without tears. It is not uncommon to sneak into my room at midnight to see me crying.
I can no longer will myself to do anything for my own benefit. I can hardly do anything for other’s benefits. This is more than just laziness as my mom perceives it. I’m so depressed I can’t really see the point in any of it.
The only reason I’ve let myself live this long is to not completely let down the people I love. I couldn’t deal with that- dead or alive.
It’s difficult because my heart and my soul around it constantly feel shattered and aching. My brain is always screaming at me no matter what I do or don’t do. My body is always depleted of energy no matter how much I sleep, drink, or eat. My will to live isn’t any stronger than my body.
I’ve waited and waited for my parents to notice. For my siblings to notice. I’ve cracked jokes that weren’t jokes about it. I’ve cried so loudly in the shower at night that my sister barges in and stares at me. I tried starving myself once. I once tried to tell my mom I had Panic Disorder back when I had it. I’ve ranted endlessly about everything wrong in my life to my parents. I finally mentioned being severely depressed to my sister and she was surprised. She didn’t think I was serious at first. She asked: “Since when?” I told her and all she did was look at me in pity and then resumed talking about herself. I’ve tried to make it blatantly obvious to them without actually saying it to them and they just push it aside like every other issue.
They say: “Well, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” When I was the one molested by her own brother for years. As if they knew what it’s like to have flashbacks about it while they’re trying to have their first kiss. As if they know what it feels like to look at people they love and not be able to trust them no matter how much they want to. As if they know what it’s like not knowing how to say no to their first boyfriend’s sexual desires he’s constantly pressuring. As if they know how it feels to lose their virginity and regret it and then eventually stop caring because who is going to care when I’m going to die anyway? As if they know what it’s like to be traumatized and always think it’s your fault. As if they know what it’s like to sit every night in the shower and stare at your razor, wishing you could just split your skin open and stop the tsunamis of emotion. As if they know what it’s like to grow up in a new age when all the older people call you entitled, lazy, stupid brats all the time and mock you and act offended when you rightfully show them respect. As if they know what it’s like when they’ve never experienced any of it for themselves. Thinking that they know everything but don’t know shit. Closing their ears and minds to the truth.
Mom, dad, your child is suffering. They’ve kept it in so long they don’t know how to admit it. So they try reaching out to you in any way they can. But you push them away saying that they must be wrong. This must be wrong. Your baby can’t be hurting.
Well your baby is sitting here crying, typing it into a phone’s notepad app at 1 in the morning that will never amount to anything. Your baby is nearing adulthood and still doesn’t know how to deal with their own feelings. Doesn’t know how to trust. Doesn’t know how to let go and live. Doesn’t know how to be happy. And your baby wants so hard to stop trying. To stop living. To be at peace.
Is that selfish? Maybe. Is it ok? No. But does it change because of that? Do the feelings I feel go away because you ignore them? Do the feelings I feel go away because you blame a different thing?
How about this: will you be able to live with yourself without your baby? Will you be able to live with yourself when they’re gone because you chose not to pay attention?
I wish I didn’t want to die.”
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