If I die I am ok. I am finally no longer in pain. I don’t have to feel broken and shattered every single day. I’ve tried. Time does not make it better. It only makes it worse.
Like a virus it grows inside, the hate and disgust, the sadness and despise.
I lay in bed at night, tears flowing down my cheeks, my chest feeling like it will crack from the pressure it feels, as though the weight of all my mistakes of all my wrong doings is sitting on top of me.
Break my heart, suffocate me, just end this pain.
This torturous hell I live in is cruel and unbearable. I’m not really alive anymore anyway. A shell of who I once was, just a body. Moving around with little attachment to anything. I float above and look down on it in wonder.
How long can this go on? How will it end? There must be enough clarity left in me to know that this is not sustaining. And there is some relief in that knowing. But the when is still unanswered.
It’s ironic that after all I’ve been through; all the work I did and how hard I fought for this life, in the end, it was all for nothing.
I’m still alone. Nothing really changed.
In fact, all I did was hurt myself more. Cause myself more pain because when I once was sad, at least I never knew what I had lost, and was only sad for what I did not have. Now I have lost. And that is a million times worse. And I have no one.
whentherapyends.com 