Sunday, April 6, 2014

full suicide text ///// fucked up world.docx (TRIGGER WARNING)

well don't say  I didn't warn you with that title. Spanned 8 pages in MS Word. 4897 words total.

If you are not easily triggered, click past the break. Keep in mind that this was me in mid-March. I mean, I've recovered at an astounding rate but tbh I'm still depressed sometimes soooo  please don't insult my sensitive little self thanks it takes a lot of guts to post this. I posted it to my tumblr originally if you wanted to find it you could but no I'm posting it here for reasons I don't quite understand

What am I worth anymore? What am I? What have I become? There’s nothing ‘good’ here, anymore, all that remains is the vile, sensitive core. Everyone’s made me the fool. I’m so sick of the ignorance, the hatred, and the lack of friendships, even on the internet. I feel like, if I don’t see something reassuring, constantly, I’ll die. I only continue to live because my body is too strong to just drop dead. I wish it would, though. I wish it would die, along with all my failed aspirations.
Years ago, when I was a kid, I had some faith in myself. Sure, I was nervous, and I served as everyone’s personal elbow rest, but I was more content. I had friends. I had hopes. My professions, what I wanted to be when I ‘grew up’, those changed daily. I was so stupid, and so blinded to the horrors of the world. My parents sheltered me. Not nearly so much as, say, Amish parents, but they sheltered me quite a bit. No muttering of ‘fuck’ came from my mouth till about age 12. I watched mainly PG movies. Attended private school. I was a clean cut, preppy girl who spent her days receiving a pretty decent education, as well as chasing boys on the playground. I can’t believe I was ever that happy, looking back.
Then, something hit. I couldn’t feel as happy as I did before. I couldn’t feel the gratification I used to for my achievements. I was eight. People don’t tell you when depression hits, because there’s no direct correlation between age and depression. It can happen at any time. For many it hits first in their teens, but I began to feel it at, yeah, you read that correctly. Eight. My parents were concerned by my sudden lack of enthusiasm, seeing how I’d always been a nervous, yet happy child.
That was when they called a psychiatrist.
I can’t remember how many actual psychiatrists I saw and how many false diagnoses were given, as to what I was ‘suffering’ from. All I remember is many, many, many emotion related board games (though they might as well have been called ‘bored’ games, because they gave me the urge to yawn). Then they found her. I can’t refer to her by her actual name; so I’ll just call her N. I used to have elongated sessions with N when I was younger, though as I entered my tween & teen years, they steadily decreased. I spoke to her about everyday life, but namely, I spoke to her about my emotions. Unlike the other psychs, she’d let me play while I talked, and that, to me, was a fine bargain. Sure, I had to reveal my feelings and spend an hour speaking to N when I really didn’t want to speak to anyone (especially an adult), but for some playtime with toys, I suppose it was a fair trade.
Eventually, she decided to prescribe me medication. Medication. Meant for teenagers, adults. Not meant for me. I mean, sure, it would’ve been more appropriate if I was, what eleven, but, I was eight. My parents somehow agreed with N that meds were the best course of action, to resolve my problems.
It’s been nearly ten years since then. I still take them. I’m too reliant to wean off them anymore. Nothing will ever fulfill me like that teeny, rounded white pill. Trust me, I’ve tried to discard them, lose them, and spit them out after sticking them under my tongue. But when I do, that familiar feeling returns, and I force myself to take them; again, again, again. This will probably be an endless cycle.
Anyway, moving along, things were dandy up until about fifth grade, which, at my private school campus, was considered middle school. Fifth grade was finally the year we could try out for sports teams and join electives of our choosing. So, one could say, I was excited.
Then came my first real crush, a bully, and humiliation.
Let me just say that I’ve been humiliated quite a few times in my life and it is not something I take well. In any case. I do not like being satirized, made a fool, or embarrassed period, for the sake of someone else’s reputation or self esteem. So if you have a shitty day and you decide to take that out on me? I’m going to try and worsen your day as well. Rest assured, I will not stop until you’ve been fucking annoyed. There is no way I will let it slide. My persistence is too strong. I’m not a passive person when it comes to fights. An eye for an eye, they say. It may make the whole world blind but it certainly beats wallowing in sorrow while someone else profits off your shame.
Moving on… there was this girl. Oh, this girl… wasn’t she a piece of work? Let’s call her M. M came from the magical, unknown land of, can you guess, public school! To us, who’d pretty much spent our lives in a rather small, confined environment, public school was a fascinating concept. We’d about 90 in our class, they’d about 1000. So, of course, when M came from the mysterious public school, to ours, as the daughter of two lawyers, we were intrigued. She was pretty, I must admit. She’d an intimidating, yet beautiful look to her.
M was different from other girls. Doing what exactly we’d been told we couldn’t. M wore makeup; M had an advanced cell phone with awesome capabilities. M had this or that. M’s popularity soared. While I’d been separated from my friends, much to my dismay, I tried to make the best of my new class rosters. Everything went smoothly, until I developed feelings for an asshole we’ll call J.
J was tall, freckled, and cute, and while I’d had a slight crush on him before, nothing hit me like the torrent of feelings when he walked through the halls in fifth grade. I’d say I was obsessed with J… or rather, madly in love. Of course, like all terrible middle school crush stories, the love was unrequited.
And then he started dating M.
M had viewed me from the distance. I guess she found my naivety and my ignorance to be interesting.  Maybe she found it to be nauseating. I don’t know, I never approached her with such questions.
M feigned friendship with me for a little while. We were teammates in volleyball. Then, I began to see M for what she really was. A mean spirited, slimy, backstabbing bitch. Oh, that girl. How she told lies to my face and then spread rumors about me behind my back. Oh that girl, how she made the effort to include and then exclude me. Oh, that girl. Regina George in training.
Fucking M. Fucking M. She was hardly the worst bully I was going to encounter, but she was evil. Pure and simple. Her only motives in hurting me were to keep J to herself. Petty, petty little bitch.
M’s bullying made me think things. As in, things like “perhaps the world would be fine without me”, or “I’m worthless”. She constantly told me so, and because she was influential, I believed her. I believed her words; I believed the bullshit she fed me on a silver fucking platter. What was I compared to her? Just a lower tier popular who she could stomp on at any given time.
That’s when I started wanting to kill myself.
The first attempt started when I was home alone. You could say I’ve had about five suicide attempts if you count my first ones. They’re significant, but at the same time, they’re of such low importance. Their severity’s nowhere near that of my latter attempts.
That day, my depression had been pestering me. At full force. I couldn’t feel anything. I was so numb. M had, as usual, bullied me.
I don’t recall everything, but what I can remember easily is me mixing a few of my mother’s pills and then swallowing them dry. I can remember calling both my parents and telling them that I didn’t want to live anymore and that they’d be fine without me. Rookie mistake. One of the rules of suicide: don’t tell your love ones that you’re going to commit suicide.
My mother came home from errands in a rage, as quickly as she could, a bottle of powder in hand. I forced that powder down my throat with water. Every goddamn thing in my stomach flew into the toilet all of a few minutes later. Vomit. I vomited every prescription pill that I’d taken in attempt to end my miserable, eleven year old life. When all was done, my mother comforted me. Though I refused to tell her much about M.
The rest of fifth grade was hell. Not only did I have academic problems. I hated the guidance counsular. The dean was no help whatsoever. My reading teacher constantly called me out, and in her own way, bullied me. I couldn’t take it.
My mother made a scene in May of my last year. She stomped out, with me in tow, and told me she’d enroll me somewhere else. I walked past my friends on the way out. I waved goodbye to them. They were completely oblivious as to what was happening. Though when I didn’t attend classes in the next couple weeks, they understood.
That was the school my parents promised to put me through, entirely. That was the school I was supposed to graduate from. It was all I knew. I had no idea how to react. I just sat, in the back of my mom’s Escalade, motionless.
If I’d stayed there, I wouldn’t be this trash. I’d be a refined, preppy girl, just as I was then.
It’s sad that you can’t alter the past. Looking at all my friends now, from that school… they seem so happy. They’re graduating next year. Class of 2015. I have a shirt from fifth grade; the words “Class of 2015” plastered on the back, along with our names. Every time I look at it I’m reminded, of what could’ve been. I might not even graduate at this point. I might not even be living by 2015 at this point. My name will not be on the roster for graduates at that school. It’s such a fucking sad realization.
Summer of fifth grade was decent; my family, as usual, vacationed to the beach. We took a road trip too. Saw some family. The remarks of ‘oh, how you’ve grown’ grated at my ears, but I didn’t care.
In summer, my interest in manga began to peak. My mother brought me a couple of those anatomically incorrect ‘how to draw’ books from the library and I grew obsessed with magical girls. Then came Tokyo Mew Mew, a rather juvenile series, clearly meant for tweens. The surrealism of it amazed me, the beauty of the art, the story (as silly as it seems in hindsight), a concept of magical catgirls saving the world. Soon, other manga began to amaze me. Sixth grade was rather nice, during the first half, I met a girl who shared my interests, a rather beautiful Indian girl by the name of… well let’s call her S, who treated me kindly and taught me the ways of public school. I met two fellow nerds, one tall and stouter, one short and skinny. They were very happy to find a third addition to their little group. Together, we joined the anime club. I met an Asian girl; serious and stern outside, much sweeter once you got to know her. I had a life. I may’ve been a nerd, but I had a life. I wore all the right clothes, I had all the right preferences, I spoke all the right words. For the first time since about 10, I had confidence. I even loved a boy. He was a beautiful boy, to be blunt, comparable to the bishonen, the pretty boys rife in animanga. The girls loved him. I really loved him. My crush on him wasn’t dissimilar to J.
We had choir class together. Those early days, those months, we spent sneaking glances at one another, as the teacher rambled on about scales.
Then, there was the turning point. Winter break. The defining holiday of holidays. Basically the longest holiday of the year, that marks the division between semesters.
My parent’s relationship, while always stormy, was worsening. I begged them not to fight; I constantly begged them to stop fighting for me and my younger sister’s sake. We didn’t want to hear about debts. We didn’t want to hear about lack of sexual contact in the bedroom either. We wanted to shut it all out. Then maybe, we thought, it would go away. Forever, and never come back.
That’s not the case. They filed for divorce, in what, April of that year? It was relatively close to the end of the school year.
After the turning point, nothing was the same. S’ friend began bullying me. Before, she was just a girl who sat near me in social studies, nothing important, no one significant. Yet, she resented me for making friends with S so quickly. And so began three years of torture by S’ friend and her followers. The teasing was constant, ugly, and vulgar. In seventh grade, it became physical. No matter how I distanced myself from S, they continued. They’d grown accustomed to using me as a punching bag. So they were going to continue. It didn’t matter how I retaliated, or how I reacted. Only worsened things.
My mother had a seizure about the time that she was supposed to have divorce hearings with my dad. She cracked the tile with her head. She fainted. She could have died. It’s a wonder that she didn’t.
She was so ill. To see her be so frail, I was more scared of her than I was relieved that she was okay. After her release from the hospital, she was a literal zombie. She slept hours at a time. She outgrew all her clothes, she was skin and bones. As selfish as it seems, I can say I partially blame my bodily woes at the time on her. I know she couldn’t help her excess weight loss, it was a side effect of the drug, and a decreased appetite, but during that time, I fucking hated her for being so skinny. That’s about the time I developed a short lived eating disorder. I only had the self control to stop because my friends were able to convince me.
In the meantime, my father left. My father left. He had to leave for work, he said. It was a definite form of abandonment for me. Even though my father wasn’t always around, he was there at the right times. And to have him suddenly leave, for weeks on end, it was fucking abominable to me. My mom makes sure to constantly remind me that my dad ‘abandoned us’. Though I don’t want to admit anything to her, she’s right. He did, essentially, leave. Couldn’t handle the conflict properly, or take care of my sick mother. It seems so disgusting in hindsight. I can’t believe I’ve mostly forgiven him for it. Though since I don’t expect much from anyone in my life at this point…
My mother dated a series of weirdos. Ranging from the high school classmate/ex who constantly crept on her and talked to her about the weather through text message, except constantly, to the exploitable high school ex who was actually a con-man, who literally ran to Arizona with $2000 of her money. To be blunt, she dated douchebags. Save for Eric, my mom’s on / off boyfriend of nearly five years, they were all fucking deplorable. And me and my sister, we knew it. We tried to warn her. Luckily, her tastes have changed, but I hated those days. I hated the unfamiliar men I had to hang around. They weren’t my dad. They would never replace my dad. I will admit, I first hated Eric as I felt like he was trying to be my father, but since he’s been around for so long; I hardly have detestable thoughts towards him anymore.
I spent many days in the woods, by myself, after school, at night. It was my go to place. Sure, I was hardly interested in physical activity at the time. Yeah, I definitely detested exercise. Though that place, that place was calming. Nature gave me a sense of security, I guess. My favorite spot sat by the creek, near a makeshift rock bridge. I brought my notebooks with me, I wrote my fanfiction, my stories, there. They were one of the only consistent things in my life at the time. I wrote sheets upon sheets of character exposition and pages of crack couple stories. I hid them from everyone, because I feared they’d read them. I even wrote the most disgusting, inexperienced smut. Those were my peak days, in terms of writing. My feelings were so powerful, that when I placed them on paper, the words flowed beautifully. Anime and writing, those were my escapes from reality. I couldn’t take living a miserable real life. So I relied on my fictional ones as a crutch.
I tried to end my life again at the end of sixth grade. June, summer. My parents sent me to a residential center. I remember nearly everyone from the first visit. The most memorable being a girl named “Crystal” who literally walked on broken glass as an act of rebellion against her parents. I remember having some sort of fun, in spite of the circumstances. Sure, I was trapped with a bunch of mentally skewed people, but they were at least understandable, fellow teenagers. I couldn’t deny that I was mentally skewed myself.
When I got out, I was more confident in my abilities, my academics, and my ability to defend myself against bullies. Of  course, as one would expect, my hopes took a nosedive as soon as I entered school again. They continued to kick me down. Relentlessly.
I cut for three years, nearly. I cut jagged, horizontal scars on my wrists. During the winter, I covered them with long sleeves, in the summer, hoodies hid them; some days, my wrists were bare. People saw them, they didn’t ask questions. I was successfully able to hide them from mom and dad for months. If I manipulated the position of my wrists, they weren’t even visible. I told a friend. I can’t remember where or when I first heard about cutting, I can’t even recall when I first slit my wrists.
 The pain served as escapism from my shitty reality. My reality sucked. I wanted to show, that in some way, I could handle pain, that I could survive pain. I wanted to show that I wasn’t weak, as everyone assumed I was. That’s primarily why I cut myself. My cuts weren’t deep, they were rather shallow, but they scarred. If I could handle the pain of my own wrists being cut, I wasn’t weak. That was my rationality…
I tried to commit suicide in May of eighth grade year. My parents sent me to the same place, for the second time. I found a friend there. It almost hurt me to say goodbye to that girl, after two weeks. The hospital forbade exchanges of numbers and whatnot to encourage further recovery. She was such a sweet girl, but so, so broken. She came from divorced parents too, and I never saw her dad. She hardly saw mine. We understood each other’s situations; and had one parent that had, in some way, abandoned us. However, I never truly forget that girl. She sits in the back of my mind. I wonder if she’s happy. I wonder if she’s relapsed. I wonder if she still thinks about me.
The summer of eighth grade was spent moving from the massive two story house my parents had owned for nearly ten years after their finances finally ran dry. With utility bills at nearly 1k in the summer, and mortgage payments on top of that, we couldn’t afford to live there any longer. The smaller house we moved to hardly fit our things. It sufficed.
I spent two years at an academy, accomplishing nothing. I had more self discovery there than anywhere else. One could say it wasn’t half bad. Unlike middle school, no one tortured me, but at the same time, no one wanted to befriend me either. I went weeks without real peer socialization. It was damning. If there were a word I would use to describe myself at that time, it would be “lonely”. I spent my days goofing off in class, writing endless ramblings on anime forums, watching anime. 
In 2011, or perhaps, 2012, I found Durarara. The epitome of a life ruining anime.
Have you ever grown so attached to a fucking character, with little to no explanation whatsoever, besides you just like them? Those were my feelings when I first saw episode five. I was a fucking idiot, transitioning from a suicidal, emo phase, to a more mature, idiot phase. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know. I just… liked him from the moment I saw that section of episode five (sexy harasho indeed). Takashi. Motherfucking. Nasujima. Life ruiner extraordinaire.
It’s not like I didn’t know his actions were wrong. I found his vagueness interesting. I admit, I felt like I could exploit that vagueness. And I did. When I finished the series, I began writing my own, idiotic, abusive backstory. I poured my heart into it. I didn’t know why I loved that character so much, but at the time, I didn’t care. I didn’t care what other people thought.
I spent the last year working out, and starving myself constantly to obtain my ideal body. Even though I tried to see myself as skinny or pretty after, I couldn’t. For all I saw was the fat I hadn’t burned off and the way my legs jiggled. I spend pretty much every school day avoiding lunch so I don’t gain any more weight. I only eat dinner most days. I’ve been eating better lately, but the way it’s making me gain is literally fucking killing me. All my hard work, down the drain, for some goddamn FOOD. Food. I don’t need that much of it to live. I’m being a greedy bitch. Haaaaaahaaaa.
To backtrack… In my second year at the Academy of Shit, I met a noob by the name of Cassie. By then, I’d gotten relatively close to one person, a rather nice, tall guy by the name of… uh… Cor Cor. He was a big fucking teddy bear. He was really nice. Truly one of the nicer people I’ve met since middle school. Then Cassie. Cassie, like me, had her fair share of problems with self image and bad ‘habits’. We’d recovered, but we were still considerably ‘broken’ on the inside. I think that’s why we clicked so much. At the beginning of this year, we were all moved, grouped in the same class. It was literal heaven. We chatted, and we were reprimanded for our chatting by teachers, but it certainly beat sitting alone. I finally had a group.
In October, all of a month into the school year, I cracked. I’d had enough of my school’s staff. My withdrawal was a few days later; after a rather nasty conflict between me, the dean, as well as the bitch of a principal. I cracked. I threatened suicide, again. Those words were empty, though at the moment, I felt like I’d rather die than take the humiliation.
In all of a day, I’d lost part of the friendships I worked so hard to form.
Since October, I’ve been in an endless funk. Every day is so surreal, like it’s not even me controlling my body or my actions anymore. I’m a zombie. No matter how I sleep, my fatigue doesn’t improve. The bags under my eyes are slightly more prominent, every sleepless night. I’ve slowly, but surely, been working on my academics, but at this point don’t feel as if I’ll graduate on time, if ever. The desire I have to drop out and earn a GED later? That desire increases every day. The motivation is gone. I’m a shell of a person now. I’m not really living. My organs function, and my body isn’t in a state of paralysis, but I don’t feel alive. If it were up to me, I would spend 75% of my time sleeping.
After last month’s fight, I’m going to be honest; I’ve been a fucking wreck. I feel like I’ve been reduced to the bottom of the barrel. I feel like everyone hates me. I literally see no point in living if my existence is useless. I am worthless. People say they’d miss me if I died. I don’t believe them. I don’t fucking believe them. I’m just this pedo loving, bacteria of a girl. I’m a clingy bitch to anyone who offers me a bit of kindness. I can’t let things go. I’ve always held grudges, but never one like this before. If tumblr doesn’t kill me, if this incidence, if my self-hatred doesn’t kill me, if nature doesn’t kill me, if Nasujima doesn’t kill me, I’m likely going to kill myself.
What will become of me, if I die? I’ll be remembered as nothing besides a bitch on the internet who liked an unpopular character and a snappy, relatively quiet person IRL. I won’t be remembered as anyone special, except to my family. Though, the way they talk to me sometimes, I don’t think they want me living either. They already know I’m an impending failure. They know I’m a highly suicidal risk. They probably wouldn’t be surprised
If I commit suicide, you can mourn my death or cheer. I don’t care. Cry for me, laugh at my death. I’m destined to die someday; I don’t see the point in living till old age. What’s the point of living if I’m only going to forget everything about my past? What’s the point in living this miserable existence? You tell me. You tell me. I’m not even prepared for adulthood at this point. It’s survival of the fittest, right? Well, what if I’m not strong enough to survive?
Stop telling me I’m worth something, I’m not. Stop telling me to get up and try again. I’m. Not. Strong. Enough. I’ve already proven that, multiple times. Why do you still have any faith in me? WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS DELUSION THAT I CAN SURVIVE?  WHAT IF I DON’T WANT TO SURVIVE?
I’m Audrey, middle name Taylor, seventeen years, seven months, nineteen days; the product of two screwed up individuals breeding, an asocial bitch through and through. I was screwed up from the moment my mom gave fucking birth to me. I have had to suffer with the burden of genetic disorders for my entire life. The world has used me as its punching bag. Even the internet has demeaned me.
 My sister is set to succeed. I’m already a failure. I don’t see the point in living.
I want to die.
I can’t take it anymore.
I have pills, I have knives. I have so many things available to me to aid me in ending my life. But I’m not going to end it tonight. I’m going to end it when I’m eighteen. Then my parents won’t have to deal with the burden of their underage daughter dying. Then I’ll be responsible for my own death. Watch me.
---- It’s 1:27 AM. I am sobbing, I have fat tears pouring down my face, and my nose is dribbling with snot. I look fucking ugly. I look fucking horrible. I hate everything and everyone. I want to sleep it off, but not even sleep can fully solve the problems I have. I’m beyond help.
I’d like to thank everyone and everything who’s/that’s made me feel suicidal; Lara, J, M, S’ friend, television, media, society, music, the many underlings, the skinny girls of kpop, and especially myself. I’d also like to thank the people who tried to help me. Thank you for your support. Thank you for trying to fix this broken soul. Thanks. I’m beyond repair. You can’t help me. I can’t defend myself any longer. I can’t defend myself any longer. I can’t take it. My defenses are weak. My body is weak. My feelings are fragile. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown, again. Ha. I’m pitiful.
What am I worth anymore? What am I? What have I become? There’s nothing ‘good’ here, anymore, all that remains is the vile, sensitive core. Everyone’s made me the fool. I’m so sick of the ignorance, the hatred, and the lack of friendships, even on the internet. I feel like, if I don’t see something reassuring, constantly, I’ll die. I only continue to live because my body is too strong to just drop dead. I wish it would, though. I wish it would die, along with all my failed aspirations.

1 comment:

  1. I won't say u don't realize how special life is, because i don't think that way either. But people like you don't exist. Ain't supose to exist. You have a sense of the perpetual beauty that is to stay in such pain and the knowloge of that pain is translated by your words in perfect sinc.
    I tought that your text was so amazing, it changed a bit of my own sense of life, and i really wished that your life came togheter so u could learn more and write more.
    Don't push that trigger, you have such a beautifull way to describe what surrounds you, i had to get a little drunk to write u this. I'm a 23 year old girl from Brasil, i don't know how i got here, but i fell u. I hope you get in touch more with that perseption that you have about life, and keep writing, because i will try to follow your words, sice they mesmerized me so much now.
    I find that so facinating, because you are only 17. I remeber when i was 17 girl, and let me tell you, i was a junkie wannabe that ended up in a mental house at 22, and i don't regret my life. I have learn a lot and seen a lot.
    Is so easy to re-invent yourself baby girl, and by what you wrote, u are as far a more interesting person than a bunch of folks i have meet my hole life.
    I'm glad about this in life, sometimes, in the most random times, we find ourselfs meeting our peers, in mind and soul.
    You are facinanting, and i'm glad i bump on into your words.