Does anyone else think about killing themselves?
Of course that’s a stupid question.
Life’s such a hard thing to live.
And people are wondering why there are more and more people committing suicide.
I won’t even be surprised if I become one of them.
I’m not really far from killing myself, in all honesty.
The funny thing is (and I do really laugh about it sometimes), no one notices how much pain I’m in.
I’ve harmed myself many times, cried myself to sleep, stared off into space for more than a thousand times, thought about plans of killing myself countless of days, hell, I even made a sort-of last will, and not one person saw beyond the mask of smiles and laughter I’ve been putting on for so long. And believe me, it would only take a matter of time before it breaks.
I’m not asking for attention. I’m actually scared of people discovering a hundred scars (both physical ones and otherwise) in my body and have them ask me about it. I don’t want to talk to people about it. I don’t want people talking about me and to me with pity.
I’m not a charity case. I’m not a basket case.
I’m a person.
A person who’s tired of living.
Now, one would normally ask, what caused this whatever-it-is that I have?
The answer’s quite simple.
It’s life itself that made me want to end it.
Sounds vague, eh?
Studying, being with people, being a fat young lady, living in a not-so-safe environment, all the stresses of life.
Studying. It’s not so much as studying per se, but it’s the subject I’m studying that I really hate. Well, I don’t really hate it that much; but when you know that you need to do what you don’t like doing, what you’re not good at; and you know you’d rather be doing something else you’re completely passionate about, then I think you’d really hate not only what you’re studying, but yourself as well.
Being with people. In my defense, I don’t hate all people. I do love my friends, I do love especially my family. But there’s really something with me right now that makes me want to turn my back on them, not open up, and keep all my heartaches and what-have-you a secret. A very well-kept secret that’s getting bigger and bigger by the minute it starts eating away at my soul. I know I can count on them, I can trust them on other issues in my life, but not my problems. I don’t want to be a burden on them. I don’t want them worrying about me. I don’t want their attention. But I do love them, I’d do anything for them in a heartbeat, but I don’t want them doing the same thing for me. I don’t fucking know why.
Being a big ball of fat. Actually me being fat did not bother me before, because a) I hate societal norms and stigma, b) it’s just the society which dictates that fat people are ugly, c) the society is wrong, unless they’re talking about the implications of being fat (scientifically, being overweight and/or obese) which they’re not because they’re actually talking about the face value of an individual, and d) fuck society.
Being fat wouldn’t bother me at all, unless of course when you’re basically called fat every single day of your life, and being told you’re not going to have a husband some day (always internally laughing at this because they don’t know that my future “husband” might actually be a wife). It’s not really getting to me, except that it’s annoying and it’s actually getting to me. I always tell them I don’t care, but it does sometimes, and that “sometimes” are slowly turning into “all the time”
Living in an unsafe environment. I’m not an idiot thinking there’s still a safe place out there, because I know that even the safest of homes have hidden dangers waiting to be unfolded. But really – natural calamities, mean people roaming the planet, people just lurking in the background waiting to rip off your lungs and eat your heart out – who wants to live in a depressing place? I know I’m sounding pessimistic, because I am.
People say that those who want to kill themselves don’t really want to do so. They just want to end their suffering.
And what better way to do that than to kill yourself?
Let me just be clear. I am in no way encouraging people to commit suicide. It may sound like I am, but really, I’m not.
It’s just hard to convince people not to do so when you yourself want to do it.
Because looking back, I could have jumped off of a building (considering I live on the 25th floor of a condominium), stabbed myself for as many times as I can, hanged myself, and overdosed on some pills.
But why am I still here?
If anyone would ask me right now, “what/who keeps you alive?” my probable answer would be God. It would have been my family (because I could never hurt my family that way) but right now my mind has been centered on myself that the only thing keeping me alive is God. Not that I’m close to Him (I’d like to, just can’t find that connection), rather I’m afraid of going to hell, and it’s that fear that inhibits me from actually committing suicide.
I’m still alive, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Because life is such a hard thing to live, but is the only way to live.
And I guess, we have to live life no matter what.