{Insert Witty Title Here}

Did you know 80% of people who ask for the help recover fully? What about that other 20%? Does that mean they are all like me? I have asked for the help, but there is no difference. I just pretend it works. The look in my better half’s eyes when I seemed to show no reaction to it at all was to much. I had to make it work. So, I have been faking ever since. Taking the pills and smiling the smiles.

I know I shouldn’t be faking it, but to tell you the truth, I have no hope of recovery. I expect to be the same shattered soul no matter what pills they think will improve me. I say improve not fix because fixing me is impossible. You can only hope I improve. Which stands no chance of actually happening either. Although, you are welcome to cross your fingers or have your hopes. I cannot stop you. Probably wouldn’t if I could. I don’t like to see you sad.

This is not anyone’s fault nor is it the last gasp of a tragic event from my childhood. I was raised wonderfully, with few things out of the norm. I don’t have a horrible life. Most of it is pretty great. Yes, things could be better, but that’s not really the point. No matter who you are things could always be better. I just want to make sure they know it was not anything they did. It is all about me. This creature inside me doesn’t deserve to live. I was born this way. Not different or special like most children. Merely this empty pod.

I’m not positive what exactly I need to say with this journal. Want may be a better word because if I knew it wouldn’t completely destroy those few people I would just do it and be done with the whole thing. No note. No explanation. No nothing. Perfection.

No Nothing.
Perfection.

The Cutting.

When I was younger I used to cut myself. Slowly and methodically I would drag the razor down my skin in a couple long deep cuts or a few mere scratches. At the first prick my eyes would glaze over. When I began the blood seeped from my veins the color of tar. The blackness slowly started to subside as I continued on in the following months. I started to feel like an actual human. However, one day, I found myself sitting Indian style on my bed, all of my cutting paraphernalia surrounding me, and my shining eyes saw red start to ooze from the first cut. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What was this? Was this something real dripping off my forearms? And I cried.

I cried because I knew I was going to disappear again. That was the only explanation for this. I quickly wiped the blood away and applied a bandage before carrying the pencil box full of my “things” out to the garbage. There was no point now. It wouldn’t solve anything anymore. The one thing that helped just gave up on me.

Why do you care?

Because this is how you’ll begin to understand.

Understanding Is Essential.

Did you know that The World Health Organization believes depression will be the number one disability in 2010? Or that suicide beats out homicide in the list of leading causes of death in the United States at eleventh place to it’s fifteenth place? I found this information while rooting around on the internet for message boards pertaining to suicide. It’s not something I find shocking since my mission in the search for these message boards was to see how people’s loved ones dealt with things afterward. The only thing keeping me from taking that last leap is that I know it would wound the few who mean the world to me. The ones who wanted to and attempted to break into my fractured psyche with no promise for hope.

It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. I have always felt as though I was drowning within myself while on the outside I am probably one of the funniest friends or relative you have. Doing my best to make a show of being happy for those around me. Only every once in awhile does it slip past my eyes to the rest of my face that the blackness inside me is trying to escape, but no one sees it. I think it scares me to think they might see it. I worry that they will start to see inside my mind. While I know they love me I know that there is no chance they would love the real me. The one inside, who has finally stopped fighting and is succumbing to the depths. All of the torrential rain of pain shall be free when I finally drown.

I am nothing. Nothing. I have never been more or less then just that. So, why? Why do they care? What draws them in and inspires them to feel however they do about me as a member of my family or as my partner or friend? I see them, but I can’t hear them. I feel like I would rather live in the world that no one knows about. The one I’m surviving in while walking in this one. The one where I’m an actual human being that has actual emotions. Not this empty vessel with the counterfeit stance.

There is no place for me here. I fit no where. That’s what happens when you are nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I will never be anything more then that. I can’t be. It is impossible. Nothing comes from nothing. It can’t just change into something else. It is what it is. Nothing. I hope that when I do finally leap for the finish line they can all understand it wasn’t about them. It never was. I just can’t be more then what I am. I can’t ask anyone for help either. I know they won’t understand. And understanding is essential.

I’m Nothing.

So why am I still writing?

Well, I’m done now…