I’m scared to stand on a cliff and look down. I’m scared because I don’t think I’m strong enough not to jump off. I don’t trust myself enough to put myself to that sort of test. I want to live. Which is why I need to be so careful. If I die then the world wins. Everyone who hurts me wins. It doesn’t do anything good for me, because after I’m gone it doesn’t matter how sorry they are. Because they’ve won. I feel like I’m invisible. I scared to ask for things because I don’t want to be disappointed. Every time that something good is supposed to happen, I don’t let myself get excited because I know I will just be let down again and it won’t follow through. Someone made a promise to me, and told me to go ahead and make plans for something. Now it’s not happening. Everything was already set. Now I have to explain to people why it isn’t happening even though it was promised to me. I know I sound selfish, but I don’t expect you to understand. No one understands. Everything is left up to me. I know my mom thinks she’s so smart and knows what I’m thinking, but she has no idea what I thin about, and contemplate, and wish I had the courage to do, but dread the fact that I might some day and I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m so scared sometimes, that despite all my plans, everything will fall through. Maybe I won’t be able to do all the things I want to do. And as my life grows closer, I get more anxious. I know I don’t have the problems that people hear about, the real problems. And I feel bad b****ing about what’s bothering me when so many other people have it worse. But for me, this is it. I don’t get any second chances. I can’t mess my life up. I need to stay strong for myself. I don’t want to die, so I would never kill myself. But sometimes I think about trying to kill myself and failing on purpose, just so people see that something’s wrong. But that would wreck my life and my plans, so I don’t. I don’t want to be the fragile, suicidal, depressed one. I don't want to do that to my family, even though sometimes I feel like they deserve it. They don’t know how I feel because I don’t tell them, but I think they should realize anyway. And they should. How can I sit on the couch and dig my fingernails so deep into my hands that I have the scabs for weeks? How is it no one noticed till two days later, and when I lied, no one questioned it? I feel like I deserve to be noticed. I need to be noticed. How can I have been hurting myself my entire life, before I even knew what that meant and not have anyone notice? Maybe because I was always the good one. The middle child who never had any major problems, so I was less important. My family has been through so much stuff that I can’t bear to hurt them more. I never did anything drastic, so I wasn’t the one who needed the most attention. I don’t think my mother has been to a parent teacher conference for the past five years. I don’t think my dad has for the past one or two. Everyone has more pressing matters, and I say that my things can wait, they’re not as important. But they are important. To me. And that does matter. And I wish that someone would see that. Because I can’t hold on much longer. I can’t keep up this act. Sixteen years is too long. I have been acting as long as I can remember. One of my first memories is me hurting myself. But I was never obvious about. I never did anything anywhere anyone would be suspicious. My hands are the most out in the open I’ve gone, and they were a call for help. I don’t want to be sick, and I know I’m not. Or rather I can control it. At least I think I can. But I’m scared I won’t be able to much longer. And next time I’m near a cliff, or a knife, or the roof of my house, I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist. And I’m scared of what will happen if I break. Because breaking isn’t an option. Not when I have so much to live for and so many things I want to do. I get nervous just thinking about everything I want to do and the fact that I wont get to do it all. I need to hold onto something. I need someone to talk to. But every time I think about picking up the phone, I don’t. Because I cant bring myself to be the one to draw attention to what I’m doing. I want so badly for someone to notice me, to realize something’s wrong, that I am willing to continue to hurt myself. I don’t think my life can ever be normal. Sometimes I think about where I want to be when I am older, and I can dream because it’s so far away. And then I realize that it’s not far away anymore. I am running out of time and that scares me more then anything else. Because there is so much living to do that we shouldn’t be waiting our time doing anything but that. But I care too much to let go of everything. I’m scared that things won’t work out. And then I’ll be lost if I quit now. So I keep going on, waiting, wishing, that somebody will finally see me.
Lost With No One To Find Me
November 16, 2011