silkandwind (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} silkandwind) wrote,@ 2005-01-07 03:09:00 |
|
I asked my mother the other day if, when she was my age, had planned on living in the same city all of her life. She was born here, she grew up here, she'll die here. She looked at me and said, "I guess I never thought about it."
She never thought about it.
I think about it all the time. How can I leave these mistakes and failures behind? When can I recreate myself? Where can I go that I don't have to pretend to be happy? I've lived in 4 cities in 3 years. There are those that battle their problems and stick up for themselves. And then there are those of us who run and never look back.
No one should ever ask for help. No one should ever cry and mean it. You might as well admit all of your failures. Spread them out on a table. Have people pick through them as if it were a rummage sale.
Thats what it feels like.
My own mother didn't even realize my attempted suicide until she saw the bottles under my bed. You see, my comforter had slipped off and revealed the contents under my bed. A psychologist would tell you that this was me "wanting to be caught". I tell them, 'I didn't know I would have convulsions and the covers would fall off the bed'.
I left no note, I told no one. Never casually brought up suicide in conversation, never joked about it. I was too ashamed. If I was all alone then there was nobody who could help me.
Some things never change.
She never thought about it.
I think about it all the time. How can I leave these mistakes and failures behind? When can I recreate myself? Where can I go that I don't have to pretend to be happy? I've lived in 4 cities in 3 years. There are those that battle their problems and stick up for themselves. And then there are those of us who run and never look back.
No one should ever ask for help. No one should ever cry and mean it. You might as well admit all of your failures. Spread them out on a table. Have people pick through them as if it were a rummage sale.
Thats what it feels like.
My own mother didn't even realize my attempted suicide until she saw the bottles under my bed. You see, my comforter had slipped off and revealed the contents under my bed. A psychologist would tell you that this was me "wanting to be caught". I tell them, 'I didn't know I would have convulsions and the covers would fall off the bed'.
I left no note, I told no one. Never casually brought up suicide in conversation, never joked about it. I was too ashamed. If I was all alone then there was nobody who could help me.
Some things never change.
