Suicide is not an option. Fuck depression. I have work to do.

Once my parents move, I will be alone in this country. I will be free to leave school and pursue writing, if I like. I can wear whatever I want in whatever city I want. I will ache for India, Indian food, our clothes and our smells. I already do, so what else is new? I like today’s Starbucks music. Maybe two clonazepam today. I am getting used to it, it’s not as harsh as it was. And I can bite them in half, need be. The loneliness aches, still. Even with good company. 

The depths to which I hate myself surprise even me sometimes. I assume people will be sick of me. The suicidality has returned. Last night I went to bed at 8-something. I was laying there, feeling very, over, and I was thinking about going to the hospital, and how shitty that would be, that I could call an ambulance to take me there. I got up out of frustration and furiously got dressed and went for a walk, until the feelings passed. I was so sick of that bullshit, that unhappy, I wanna die, bullshit. I didn’t have to walk too far, a few blocks, then turned back, got a soda from Hero Burger, what the fuck who cares, I wanted, needed something to fill the void. I came home and lit incense and tidied the clothes I’d thrown on the floor. It felt good. I didn’t feel as powerless over my emotions, my thoughts.

Suicide is not an option. Fuck depression. I have work to do. 

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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