september's email.

"I am thinking of and do worry about you"
1 hour's never enough.

Wouldn't know where to start or what to say when I've left out so much of what I wanted to tell. So much has happened but looking at it it's as if nothing had, maybe it was all in my head. Perhaps the feelings I feel inside and emotions I had made it seemed as if so much was going on. Maybe so much had, maybe half of me is in denial. Always am. Somehow thinking of everything makes me feel annoying. It's irritating to believe anything that happened meant something when it feels like you mean nothing. As if by bothering, sinking into these thoughts and all these disappointment or devastations and heartache caused by people is rather selfish, it's no one's fault. I put myself in such a situation, screwing up everything I lay a hand on.

I'm sick, sad and an inconvenience. Should have stayed heartless. Not that it was easy, not that it hurt any less but it was vital, to not make myself believe I have an importance to anyone, to any life. Putting everyone above me and blocking out my feelings, caring to a certain point only and all the rational thinking, made it much bearable. Though it could only last for so long. Shouldn't have been so brave. Everything you've kept inside for years eventually surfaces to punch you right in the throat. You can't hide what's real, whatever that makes you human. This depression has always been all on me. Every deranged thought is my own. Everything bad has been from my rotten excuse for a soul.

Is it that state of mind, before you let go of who you became, what used to be so close to who you were, to become as cold as you wished you weren't but would be in order to get through? It'll be those weeks or months where you stare into space, watch and hear but not listen or comprehend your surroundings. You're alright, fine one second or a few hours- now holding in the urge to cry, wishing you'd die each night, every morning when no one's there, every afternoon/evening before they come home- and then they come home. You're you again, or part of what you kept, for them. You can never shed a tear. No matter how desperate you get with the urge to tell, you can't. You never have.

It's always been just "I feel sad" "I'm sad", like a broken record "why?", you stay silent. It never seems serious enough to be worried about, it never gets any easier to explain. Not that you don't know what's going on in your head, what's it all about inside, it's them. They wouldn't. You know how general it sounds because talking about suicide is unacceptable. You've mentioned it before, you learned never to again. Not everyone knows what it's like to be in this state of mind, you're just 'sad'. It's not always them, sometimes barely or never, it's just your mind's a bit unwell but they don't want to know that, they don't try to understand and you can't blame them. It's difficult to be with someone having them believe they make you this way when you have never been another way even before they came. It doesn't make it any easier to try so hard and still get put aside, and on the days where you fail to, as if you don't already feel bad and worthless enough you get reminded of what you've become.

That you were better before. 

If it were true why'd they let me go, made me go through it all alone. If 'better' meant nobody gave a shit because things were dandy maybe it wasn't as much different as deteriorating, when with you disheveled they're no different. Still I noticed every moment, every second when anyone genuinely cares, noticed, or asked concerned and every time I had to lie because it would break me just as much as it could them. Or every time I tried telling but couldn't, as they let it all pass. It gets to a point where I honestly believe nobody's interested and that maybe nobody should be. I've started restricting again. Comes the overpowering urge to lay and rot, stay in bed, curtains closed, radio on, eyes on the ceiling, moving from your hand to the window to the door and all the shit you kept in your cupboard. Food gets me frantic, the sight of myself gets me nauseous. I don't think I'l ever be able to recover.

I can never be normal, I will never be 12 again. Every year I get a lot older, with less shine in my eyes. Every year's smile's different. Every moment in every photo could have me breaking down when every moment and reason it was taken for, how I felt, where I was in life, every little thing is reminded by it. It gets louder everyday, everything so tempting. Some days it gets so loud, enough for you to get up and make it happen, these thoughts they come more often these days. It's easy to make fun of the suicidal thoughts, just because it's not you, or anyone close enough but to live with it, to restrain yourself from acting on it, is agonising. Every day's a day closer from it happening. Every day's another day of completely losing it. There are still moments where you want all the help you could possibly get, you keep waking up for it, you go on, for everyone you still have, for everything you haven't lost yet but then you relapse. Just another lost cause. 

And everyone thinks you're still there. 

-riri-