That's all I am. An obligation of my grandparents. No one ever wanted or needed my pitiful existence. I was taken in, only because I was another one of my mothers mistakes. She didn't want me. Neither did my father. If no one wants me to exist, then why do I? Why, even knowing this, am I still here?
I am empty inside, drained of all compassion and life. All I feel like now is laying down, not moving until I die. Even then, it will be too much of an effort to maintain existence.
I feel like a contradiction. People who know me say that I am the most confident, self-assured person ever. They say that I am happy--sometimes too happy for my own good. And sometimes I am. Really. But...at other times, and sometimes even behind my own mask, all I can think about is how I will go unnoticed when I die. I see how worthless I am, how no one knows or cares about who I really am.
I'll be driving in my car, and picture a crash where I'll die. All the details are planned out in my head. Or I'll be at work, and I'll imagine someone coming in to rob the store. I'll get shot, and no one will notice.
I know that emotion is a weakness. I have been taught that. Why, then, do I feel? I feel the desire to be something, to have meaning. Also, I feel the deep, constricting fear of never finding a purpose to my existence. I felt love, once. But that, like many other things, was amistake.
With all this, I still think I'm strong. Why, then, does it take only harsh words to break me down, to make me cry? Why can't I handle even a 'lecture' without bawling my eyes out?
Why am I so weak?
Why can't I just die?
I tried it once. Dying. Even then, I wasn't strong enough to really do it. I was a cutter too, something I did to try and get someone to put me back together again. I was mocked for it.
"Are you happy now?" they'd ask.
I got sent to therapy. After a week, I was asked if I was better yet; when could they stop taking me.
I told the shrink everything she wanted to hear.
I was put on antidepressants, which only steadied my mood swings, leveling them out to something slightly below self-hatred.
I was asked when I woudn't need them anymore; when they wouldn't have to pick them up for me anymore.
I stopped taking them.
I tried to get help. I really did. All it did was make it worse. I was laughed at. It was a secret from the rest of the family. God forbid I embarass them.
My life is worthless. I am a contradiction, albiet a worthless one. There is no meaning to my eighteen years. Will I have the strength to end it? I doubt it. I'm weak like that.
What, then?