Post 3

I don't know what my fate is now. But I wish it not to be like this.  Sitting at home on a Friday night while all my distant friends are out. I am here suffering, Facebook stalking and torturing myself as I write down my pains and sorrows.

I am also unsure of what I am after in terms of attention.  For some reason, I just want people to know how I feel just by looking at me ( or looking at my arm).

Why can't my own family not feel my pain? Does my own mother know my life plans?
She only talks to me if she wants something done. Why traise me to be independent if you want me to live in the kitchen like every other depressed housewife.
I don't think I would be a depressed housewife because there's a difference between wanting to do something nice for somebody I care about and doing something because I am being forced to.

Friday and Saturday nights are the hardest because I know all my friends are out having fun and I am stuck at home.  I don't want people to know that I don't have a life.

Is my life the only thing I have control of?
Why do I have urges to shave my head?
Why do I have so many questions and why can I not find the answers?
Why am I looking for somewhere else to live knowing that I can't move out?

My life remains confusing. I just have to breath and get on with it. But what relaxes me is knowing that I can just stop breathing. As a living corpse, I am half way there.

I have noticed that I get so pissed off with men. Random men, strangers who aren't chivalrous. Men who allow women to stand on a train or bus as they sit comfortably is mortifying.

Who would care if I passed away? And how long would it take till they just moved on from my death? I will just be a name within a couple of months. I don't think anyone loves me for it to effect anyone. What would be done for my rememberence? And would the people I consider close make time for me in my death? Maybe for a year or two but eventually, I will be forgotten.

There are parts of me that want to grab a piece of broke glass and just squeeze it till I bleed. I want the gay paramedic I had that dat to be around all the time to tell my parents to stop fighting while I cry.  No one cares about making me feel better. It's all about placing blame. I don't know who will read this or if anyone will read it at all. But if someone is, please save me, before its too late.