Like life, this post is pointless.

All I know is uncertainty, in all of its intolerableness.

I told my parents that I wanted a gun for Christmas and they reminded me I was mentally ill.  I remember when I used to tell them that and they would never believe me, blind to my suffering as much as I was.  My mom once told me to kill myself, to see if I would actually do it.  Every time they talk to me, the inside of me swells up.  I feel like I’m gonna die without even doing it myself.  But they care though, I guess they just don’t know how to do that very well.  Well my therapist assures me they care and I guess I have to trust her.  I can never think of something to talk about with my therapist, but we always end up talking abut something.  That’s always a big insecurity is not being able to talk.  And whoever my therapist is at any point in my life is one of few people or the only person I can rely on, and I’m not even making that up from my insecurities, it’s usually just true for people.  I always prided myself because my therapists always either really liked me or thought I was their most interesting patient or etc.  It’s been one of few validating experiences for me on this earth.  That’s why I get nervous that I might start to bore them.  My life is really boring right now and I don’t have any friends.  Even when I think nothing’s happening, though, I guess it’s not true, because I always want to die, if only they knew.  I bet I’d be good at dying. My suicide note would be a beautiful gratitude list mixed poetry and emo sayings.  I’d definitely wanna go out with a bang.  If I can’t love my life I’m sure as hell gonna love my death.  I remember taking this african dance class when I was still in college and the teacher would always play this song that would just repeat the phrase “I love my life”.  I always thought she was crazy but I’m starting to think now that there’s no such thing as craziness, just different experiences.  That woman was crazy to me because loving life wasn’t normal to me, only hating it was.  I never thought I was crazy but everyone else did.  I never know how things originate. Like did people thinking I was crazy make me suicidal and not feeling like I belonged in the world.  Or did my  suicidality make people think I was crazy.  And if the ladder is true than maybe all the reasons I feel like I don’t belong aren’t real.  But I never felt like I belonged and people always thought I was crazy.

 

 

 

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