I feel like dying. I want to die but things aren’t so simple. No one tells me that I have no rights to talk about being depressed. But I know that they don’t want to, and they don’t have time to listen, or it’s just I thought so. Of course, no one’s going to tell that to you directly, they just politely deny to talk about it. Yeah sure, what’s fun about depression? I feel depressed. Not I am depressed. Just not yet. I have ideas about killing myself, how I would die, by chance or intentionally, how people would react if they knew this day would come. My heart is already a hell, and my soul is already a devil, so what’s worth living for? For some people that may know me pretty well, they thought I have nothing to feel depressed. I’m not working yet, I go to school, I have good friends, a thoughtful mom, an oversea brother, I have a smartphone, iPad, laptop,… things that many others don’t have. So I don’t think they understand. What am I feeling depressed for? Do I really want it? Do I make it up for fun? Or am I really what people have always thought? Nice, lovely, cute, shy? No, for whatever I want to say. I did terrible things, I faced terrible things. I am selfish, I have to admit. I don’t hate love, it’s just that I don’t want it to come too close to me. I tend to be single my entire life. I know it’s possible and I will make sure it works. Getting someone to know you too well is definitely not a good idea for me. Anyway, these days I feel even more horrible than ever. Forgetting the past has never been easy, especially when it reminds you of terrible things you’d been through. For me, it’s the same, and somehow it’s getting worse. The people that brought me down, they still live happily. And I’m here, writing this, feeling extremely confused about my life, whether I should live on or die, and whether I should just die and tell nothing but lines of “I’m sorry”. I want to scream until my throat bleeds and I become mute. Just scream out so loud for the last time and then end my own life like I’ve been imagined for so many times I couldn’t count. If I died, things could be better than it should be, people wouldn’t feel annoyed about me so much, my sins would be buried down in the deep ground with my dead body. All these years, I’ve been using the same excuse all over and over again. I blamed people for bashing me. I pitied myself. I used them to make myself feel better and to let go of almost everything. Now I have nothing to rely on. Dying would be better to end everything.
My heart is already a hell, and my soul is already a devil. Nothing can save me now.