suicidenotefromasmalltimerecipient

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The words I muster in my very last breath will be my regrets

Day 2. Realization.

Talking to people during these stages turns useless. The thought of ignoring them sets in minutes before their words leave their lips. Sentences lost in space with out making a hit on their targets ears. Welcome to your body in a nervous breakdown. Pass out, it might feel better to come to feeling like you’re seeing everything for the first time again.

Now you wish you would have thought what you are thinking now, then. The evidence was left everywhere to be found; You don’t even need to take the prints for this one. Gazing at the sky never answered so many questions…there still aren’t enough answers. It’s the only time you feel alone, on the verge of sleep and being wide-awake day dreaming about dreaming. The world isn’t big enough for all the secrets you’re keeping.

People will tell you things to make you feel better about your self. Things that might be genuine, but little do they know that they don’t know you at all. Quick fixes only last you so long until you’re coming down and you need something else to pick you up. Your drug: their pain, your cure: your pain. It’s the only way you know to live. It’s the only way you’re going to die.

How does it feel to know that people were right about you? They called it from a mile away. You didn’t know you were wearing a sign that said “royally fucked” that can be read 20 miles down the highway. It’s not hard to see why they know. Looking in the mirror has never felt so dissatisfying. You’re all you know. Nothing ever came of what you were supposed to be.

Go to sleep, day 2 is over. How many more days until you stop feeling this way? The clocks hand punches you square in the mouth, minute after minute, second after second. Spit out your teeth, each one of them wouldn’t even amount to the secrets you hold inside of me.


Your mouth tastes human. Your mind feels wasted.

Day 1: Guilt.

The day it finally settles in. Finally after hours of contemplation and reasoning, you finally come to terms with what you’ve done. The way a bipolar disordered mind works. There’s nothing anyone could have done to make you feel anything other than complete indifference. It’s times like this when you ask your self why you’re still breathing.

This is the day you sit in a room full of people and can’t help but feel like you have nothing in common with them. You ask your self if they have done anything like you just did, you wonder what hides inside, what skeletons do they have in their closets. You stopped taking your meds and you’re teetering on self-destruction and learning a valuable lesson. With a mind like yours, who needs a valuable lesson? You’ll forget it when you go to sleep. Wake up and start that routine that got you writing this in the first place.

Now’s the time you think about how you fucked it up, so bad beyond repair. What makes you think what you did was a good idea at the time? It’s the knack for having; scratch that, needing chaos in your life. Day dreaming of “how it could have been” gets you nothing. It’s gone, and now it’s really never coming back. No matter how much you (don’t) want it, it’ll never come back. Recollection of the way things used to be gets you nowhere. All the “sorry’s” and “forgive me’s” can never add up.

This isn’t the first time this feeling has happened. The nostalgia and irony leaves a disgusting after taste in your mouth. It’s like a plaque build up that nothing can remedy. Scars align. It’s time to own up to what you’ve done. You’re only human, is that an excuse? No. Does it help you cope? No. “Another bump” is such a crock of shit. If that’s the case your life is a cobble stone road. The knife is being shoved right into that scarred tissue from your previous fuck up. Here’s to another day spent counting the days till you end.

21 years of descent and you still haven’t hit the dirt. Nothing’s wrong, but you can’t find the right. Maybe everything’s so wrong that you feel it’s right. Get used to it kid, you’re in for a bumpy ride and you’re not getting off any time soon.


You brought this on your self.

...

"If you could go back to the happiest point in your life, would you?", right when those words were leaving her lips I knew what this was going to turn into. How do you lie to someone? Easy, you lie to them like you lie to your self. It's easier that way. No connection. No emotions. This person isn't a person, it's you. So I told her that when I was 5 I had the best birthday ever. On that day I had so many friends, so much family, so much to look forward to; even up to those last minutes leading up to my five year old face being smashed into a cake by my dad. I knew it was going to happen. It happened every year before that. I didn't mind. The world was mine that day. I still remember everything that happened on that day, what toys I got, the colors of the mess that I left on the ground from the gifts I had gotten. Littering? I couldn't even say that word. I didn't care. I needed to see what was inside those bright-well-wrapped gifts that seemed to take hours to open to me, to everyone else it was seconds. Smiles were being displayed, amazed by the speed of my hands as they ripped the tape, the ribbon, the paper, the packaging. Cards were last, always last. I remember this birthday specifically because I remember getting a lot of money. I thought it was 200, it was probably 50. I couldn't even count to 200. Regardless, it was gone before I could even buy anything with it. It had disappeared. That was the last birthday I cared to remember. That was the last time my entire family was together. That was the last time anyone seemed to care. That's it. That was the happiest point in my life. Innocence, still had it. Solid foundation, seemed intact. Sanity, check. "Then what happened?" cue you ruining some ones day. It's something I'm used to now. My life story. Total assault on all senses. You can smell the desperation in my breath. You can taste the disappointment in the air. It's a never ending story. Where can you hide it all? Somewhere in the back of my mind, it's all in there. Subconsciously, I have left over resentment from the past. "Maybe you need to talk to someone." Heard that before. Why should I? Why don't they just talk to me? Paranoia sinks in and you're wondering if this person hates you yet. You really don't care though. It's not enough to even worry about. So you keep going. Little do you know, you'll be spending the up coming months with this person. Seeing them every day. Smelling their morning breath. Hair grease in your face as you two tell each other your thoughts that morning. What you dreamt about; those feelings still resonating inside. Deciding what you're going to eat. What you're going to wear. When you're going to shower. It's not enough. Nothing's ever enough. You ask your self if this is what you really want. Phase 2: doubt. It will kill you. It's gone on long enough. And now you're just waiting for the crash. Why not pull the plug now? Fuck bracing your self. I want it to die now. Is this normal? You're not normal. Don't ask yourself. Ask someone else. You won't take your own advice. That's something to say about you. Self improvement: a harsh critique on your social skills, or lack thereof. It's miniscule compared to all the other problems in your head. You're still bitter about that money you lost when you were 5. Innocence, you never knew how fucked the world was going to be when you had it in your hands. How did you turn into this?

"If I speak, my pain is not lessened, and if I hold back, what has left me? But now he has exhausted me; thou hast laid waste all my company. And thou has shriveled me up, it has become a witness; and my leanness rises up against me, it testifies to my face. His anger has torn me and hunted me down, he has gnashed at me with His teeth; my adversary glares at me. They have gaped at me with their mouth, they have slapped my on the cheek with contempt; They have massed themselves against me. God hands me over to ruffians, and tosses me into the hands of the wicked. I was at ease, but he shattered me, and he grasped me by the neck and shaken me to pieces; he has also set me up as his target. His arrows surround me. Without mercy he splits my kidneys open; he pours out my gall on the ground. He breaks through me with breach after breach; he runs at me like a warrior....my face is flushed from weeping, and my darkness is on my eyelids, although there is no violence in my hands, and my prayer is pure. O earth, do not cover my blood, and let there be no resting place for my cry...my spirit is broken, my days are extinguished, the grave is ready for me."

About the author.

I was born leaving. Every time I look my self in the mirror I ask my self what I should change about the person staring back at me. There's always something. Physically, mentally, anything and everything. I'm judgemental, about everything; not just people who walk by me everyday or that trendy kid sitting on the bench in front of me as I write this, but everything that can be put into a coherent thought. I judge my self as harsh as I judge everyone/thing else. I try and forget that I'm just another rotting sack of flesh with blood pumping through my veins, walking around waiting for my time to go (go where?). I care about less and less every day. Why should I? Each day is a lesson, another nail on the coffin, another day I didn't do what I said I would. Our weakest moments are the ones we realize that nothing is permanent; friends, loved ones, relationships, family, parents. They all end. Maybe that's why I make them end. I reject nature. That's my nature. I'm a diagnosed, chemically imbalanced-ender. I don't let nature run its course. As I lay here on the beach, over looking the pacific, with your head on my back, basking in the sun, while I face away from it (see? Always rejecting nature) I know there's nothing but good thoughts going on in your head. You don't know what I'm thinking. I won't let those thoughts touch you. I promise. You'll never have the displeasure of meeting them and being in their company. Yet, somehow they'll effect you. They'll effect us. I'll give you hints, but I'm "hard to read", if only you knew, if only they knew. People don't think like me. I hope they don't. I'd never want them to think of the things I think of. I find solace in the fact that the rest of the world doesn't think of the things I do. There you go, rubbing my neck and patting my leg, I know what you're thinking. I wish I didn't. My minds too tired to think for two people. Don't take it the wrong way. I'm not depressing, I'm honest. You're not honest, it's depressing.

....

I'm staring in mirrors to try and see what they saw in me. You know that feeling of complete isolation, like no one knows your alive. I feel that all the time. We feel it all the time. I never talk these days because they all know what I'm thinking, I wear it on my face. I never look these days because I know what I'll see. We cut all ties, hoping what we're ending are our anchors that bind us by our feet, when really they're what we need. We cover our faces with what we know. We crawl on the ridden leaves and all the dead dreams that we're supposed to be buried but no one cared to do so. Chemical imbalances keep me balanced. "So it's begun" we say, waiting for another let down and in a minute we realize what we've got our selves into. Everything we begin, we must end. It's just a matter of time before I end up with another regret.