There’s a fucking montage playing in my head. So fucking perfect, I could cry. Most days post 11/11, I’d wish I could have someone take them away from me because beautiful memories are a double-edged sword. It would be easier to do things his way when I don’t have all this good — that’s all that was given to me, honestly. All good. Too good.

I’ve been kicking myself in the head for being vulnerable, wearing my heart on my fucking sleeve. The Pattern told me to use this as a strength. I say, “FUCK THAT SHIT”. Well, right now at least.

You know, the unknown isn’t so scary when there are things you could hold on to as you walk into the dark. But what if you’re either grasping on straws, or nothing at all? What’s worse?

I’ll tell you what’s worse : what’s worse is one of those paths being taken away from you. A possibility, a potential future — taken away, before you even try to take a first step.

—

There was a makeshift noose I had created (I’m crafty like that) and figured out the strongest place I could wrap it around on to be able to hold my weight. I stared at it for minutes, drink in hand, Taylor Swift blasting in the background. It was the 14th of September. I remember this because I had written a letter, too. I had made a deal with the universe at the moment. But then I sat on the mattress, looking up at these white strings, drenched in tears. Then, the dangerous, untrustworthy glimmer of hope tapped me on the shoulder. Why did I listen. Why do I always listen. Why do I always fall prey to its fake promises?

So I make a plea, if you will. I try to listen to it justify the situation and the pain I was in. Then, with trembling hands, I take down the strings, take down the image of my lifeless body hanging from it, and tucked it away.

I know. It’s fucking pathetic thinking about it right now. Mental illness is not something you get to be proud of. Depression is not something I should openly discuss, because people still don’t get it. I still get judged for feeling the things I feel, having the thoughts I have.

I hope you know I don’t want to do these things. I’m trying my hardest to no longer go there. I hope you know that. I wouldn’t want to be in this position. Who does?

—

I stare at this person I shared nearly half of my life with and feel nothing at that moment but gratitude. He had moved out a week prior this episode, this time with sleeping pills. As I try to empty myself of (all in all), 12 tablets consumed within less than 8 hours — flushed down with nothing but water and a couple of glasses of rum coke, I realized I did not want to be alone. It was Day 1, post 11/11. Without hesitation he sees me right after his shift, gives me a long, silent hug, and then sits me down. He tucks me in, holds me, and waits for me to sleep that night. He gets it. He’s been there. These are the pros of growing up with someone who has internally suffered the same way you did. Although I wish he didn’t. I wish none of us ever did.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can imagine how silly this might sound. If it does sound silly to you, then good. I do not wish anyone else to feel like this.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can see why no one would want to be with this … sad excuse of a human being. It’s not fair, though is it? I didn’t choose to be like this.

Please don’t hate me. I hate me enough for all of us.

—

God knows I’m trying. I have been trying. I try to think that I’m worthy of the good in my life. Did I self-sabotage again? Is it too late for me?

I could be better, you know. Given the chance, I know I could. It’s not this bad, I don’t make people’s lives worse. I don’t carry around my baggage like that, I promise. If anything, I’ve done everything in my power to do the opposite. I tend to carry the Sun on my back, too.

Please believe me.

I am trying. But what am I to do when it feels too much? You can’t blame me, can you?

Do you?

—

God. Sure does feel good to take a leap. This is what I get for not looking at where I land, or to make sure if there’s even anything I land on. I took a leap and hit rock bottom.

Story of my life.

Will I do it again?

—

Do I regret it? I don’t. It is beautiful to feel. At the end of day I want to keep my perfect montage. It’s kept me alive (even if it is killing me now).

I’ll just never understand why something that (to me,) felt so pure and beautiful … has to hurt.