The Actual Truth

I like to think that I will one day be able to let them know of the struggles I face almost every night. I like to think that it won’t be like telling them I’m addicted to some drug. I like to think that it won’t place me (even more so than I already am) away from them.

I can’t recall when it started, but I remember my first night alone. I remember biting back sobs. I remember the feeling of emptiness. I remember how scared I was. I remember the realization of the pathetic, worthless, thing I see myself as. I remember the puffy, red eyes that next morning. I remember no one asking, yelling, or addressing my state of unrest and internal agony. I remember their faces when they noticed and decided against action.

Most of all, I remeber thinking that my thoughts were irrational, so I need to get over it.

Then it happened again.

And again. And again.

And again.

And it never stopped.

This is my depression and the truth is it’s my biggest fear. It keeps awake at night. The more alone I am the worse it is. My sister like to leave around 10pm to have fun with people her own age, so I find myself alone. I can’t quite put it into words when I first realized that death seemed like the answer to a prayer I never knew I asked for.

I hate myself because I know I’m better than this. I hate myself more because I know I’m not strong enough to drag myself from my own personal Hell.

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