Depressive Rant

Therapeutic record of my personal sorrows. Comment if you like, I just want to release my pain into the ethers.

“Just keep on smiling, the pain will be over before you know it.”

I tell myself to coo away the overflowing pain within. I tell myself empty promises that a better day will come if I just wait. But I know that even if it does, I’ll be carrying this sorrow with me and not enjoying the moment.

Is it strange that I can’t tell those that are close to me that I’m hurt? That I feel like a burden if I do. That I might be telling a lie about how I feel to gain sympathy. That I’m scared to let them see my tears or hear my whimpers in the night. That I’m tired and just want another life, yet I still want to see the light at the end of this tunnel.

I’ve contemplated death, the hurt that it’ll bring to others whether it’ll be a loss of a friend, a loss of an investment, the loss of a lifeline, or the expensive cost of my funeral. And for this, I do my best to stay alive, so I can live until nobody cares for me and then die.

Scared for the effect my pain will have, I stifle my words even as I write knowing nobody wants to be exposed to negativity. I do everything to suppress it. Choke myself when the tears don’t stop flowing. Smile when I feel myself slipping. Hide and run when I no longer want to be seen or known as me. You’d be surprised by how many times I’ve killed myself in my own mind or how easily I can sleep my days away in the beautiful world of my imagination.

Sympathy is not what I want. It can only hurt me more because of the lies I’ve been told.

They say they loved me yet their actions do not align. They want to hurt me. They want to constrain me. They don’t want to know me. They just want the nice me, the polite me, the talented me, and the pretty me, but I’m mean.
No, I don’t want to be nice. No, I don’t want to do these things for you. No, I don’t want to be what you want me to be. No, I don’t know me, so how can I tell you what I want when you’ve never let me be me.

I’m nice only because I don’t want to fight, so don’t make me fight.
I’m scared that if a day comes when my tears no longer followed anger, I’ll raise hell upon this earth.
I’ve already corrupted my mind with the visage of the gross and violent. What makes you think it’s okay to play with my heart?
I’m not scared to become the worst because I’ve molded my fear into my own image.

I hate how broken I am that even my own sadness has learned to suppress itself.

I cry and then, I desensitize. It’s as if the pain in my chest became too much that it cut off the signal from my brain to the body. It’s doing it’s best to save me from an idiotic death. Or perhaps, my pain wasn’t as strong as I thought it was. But I know it has evolved since now I have broken memories. I can’t quite remember who I am or connect my reflection with me.

I can’t believe kind words. They just won’t reach me as my mind contorts them into superficial words that politely say I don’t care about your pain, I’m doing you a service by being nice. I know some words are honest and necessary to become healthy again, but I just don’t want to accept them because they invalidate the pain I’ve experienced.

People forget the dead and they’ll just as easily forget that others get hurt. But don’t be so sensitive that’s just taking away the only way for us to cope.

Laugh some more, this life is a comedy of a fool’s unyielding pursuit of happiness as the world makes it difficult to get anywhere at all.