Everything I do and say comes back to bite me in the ass. My mood swings have become out of control. For example, just ten minutes ago I was smiling and feeling good because my cousin is getting married, and then now i’m sitting here biting the inside of my lip and trying not to cry. Why does this happen? Every person I talk to ends up hating me for all the stupid things I say and do. I can’t stop these feelings. You may think my feelings can be controlled and stopped, but you don’t fucking know me at all. You don’t know who I am or what I deal with on a day to day basis. Do your parents loose their jobs frequently? Is your body falling apart? Odds are you’ll answer no. I don’t have a point for being here if i’m just going to aggravate every single fucking person I talk to. I just want to die, so fucking bad. I need the guts.
So, my grandad was doing his taxes and he was on the phone with my Aunt Ellen and he was saying how he thought the abbreviation for Tennessee was TE. So my aunt corrected him and said it was TN, and he said; N as in Negro!? Oh my god I love that man.
Run away to Brooklyn. Rent an apartment with a claw footed bathtub. Commute to Manhattan during the week and put in hours at a menial publishing job. Drive home to New Jersey on weekends to swim in the pool and cry to your mother. Smoke Gauloises on the fire escape. Let yellowing issues of Rolling Stone and Vogue pile into a protective fortress around your bed. Listen to Cat Power. Fall asleep mostly naked beneath the duvet watching Sportscenter and drinking earl grey. Date a Yankees fan and kiss his hands on the 4 Train into the Bronx.
Run away to Barcelona. Eat milk chocolate magnum bars and drink cheap champagne. Burst into charming fits of laughter whenever you get embarrassed about butchering the Catalan language. Wear denim cutoffs, Dr. Pepper chapstick, and very little else. Go dancing at 3 a.m. Whiten your teeth. Tan your shoulders. Braid feathers into your hair. Perpetually wake up with sand caught in the thin cotton sheets of your tiny bed. Listen to the Rolling Stones and kiss all the longhaired boys you can get your hands on without ever having to apologize.
Run away to Los Angeles. Sublet a studio in Venice three blocks from the beach. Listen to top 40 radio. Go to Chateau Marmont and charge drinks you can’t afford to a long-dormant credit card. Sleep with a television actor who lives in the valley. Sleep with a musician who lives in Bel Air. Break things off with both of them when gas prices begin to rise. Find Gilda Radner’s star on the Walk Of Fame and swallow a sob when you see the filthy cement around her name is cracked. Walk through the Venice Canals until the sun sets and you forget your own name. Call your mother crying from the parking lot of a 24-hour Ralph’s supermarket. Tell her you want to come home.
Run away to Paris. Gaze at the pink and pistachio glow of macarons in the window on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Listen to Joni Mitchell. Meet an Argentinean man in the Latin Quarter for drinks. Melt into his accent and kiss him goodnight, but return to your apartment alone because his face doesn’t look enough like the man’s you are trying to forget. Get lost in the Richelieu Wing of the Louvre, admiring Napoleon’s fine red damask. Walk alone along the Seine in an old dress, ten-dollar shoes, and an Hermes scarf. Fumble with the locks on the fence overlooking the river. They all have lovers’ names etched into them and the girl who left the red heart-shaped lock has the same name as you.
Run away to Martha’s Vineyard. Write heartbroken stories during the day in front of a large fan that blows curls of humid hair across your tired face. Take a waitress job at The Black Dog at night and try hard not to drop too many trays. Learn to ride a moped. Pretend you’re a Kennedy. Listen to Carly Simon. Eat hand-churned ice cream out of waffle cones. Visit the flying horses and consider how many girls just like you have sat on the same horse clutching for the same brass ring. Get stoned and dance barefoot down the length of the eroded Jaws beach. Date a Red Sox fan. Yell at each other during baseball games, and then kiss and make up between tangled sheets.
My room smells like apple pie and i’m making bacon for lunch. Then i’m cleaning and starting the renovation process of my room, then seeing a show at the Everett later. I’m hoping I can keep my energy level high.
I’m tired of getting sick everyday. I’m tired of the nonsense that I deal with. I’m tired of my parents constantly loosing their jobs. I’m tired of being made fun of. I’m tired of feeling this much pain. I can’t take anything at all anymore. So what do I do? Drown myself? Overdose on alcohol or pills? Shoot myself? Slit my wrists until I bleed to death? I don’t even know. But I do know i’m ready to end it. Hopefully tonight.
You're beautiful, and I somewhat understand your situation. And on top of it, I was just diagnosed with depression and anxiety and my mom isn't supporting me going on medication because she doesn't think it's that serious. Okay, well things do get better. (:
Thank you. And there’s a whole lot more to my story that I’ve never really talked about because I figured no one cared. But I hope you’re okay. Thank you. Who is this?
I try to talk about my problems but everyone’s excuse is that they can’t handle what I have to say. Can I help my feelings? No. I try my best, but it obviously doesn’t work. No one understands how bad this week is for me. Today exactly two years ago started a relationship that scarred me for life, and honestly it’s best that it ended. On the 29th, it will be two years since my Uncle Arthur has passed. My dad looses his job again at the end of the week. So i’m sorry that if when i’m helping you i’m telling you that your problems aren’t like mine, because odds are they aren’t! I wish someone would just listen to me, so I could get all these things off my chest and feel less suicidal. Good God, i’m going to kill myself.