Broken

Dear Dylan,

I’d give anything to not be this way. I know I’ve said that before, but I really mean it. I don’t want to be the kid that the others look down on. I don’t need the sympathy of the same people who pass judgments behind closed doors. To my face, they treat me like I’m this great inspiration, acting like they know what I go through. They’ll never understand, never, because they don’t even take the time to know me. The only thing they know about me iswhat I’ve been through, but they all line up to make the judgments. Behind my back, though, I know what they do, what they say, what they think.

I don’t want to have to take an array of pills, to have so many that are so hard to keep track of and make my head spin, and give me weird side effects that make me more and more numb and less and less human. I don’t want to have my sister and my parents be embarrassed of me, like I’m this giant freak that no one wants to associate with. I don’t want to have all of these therapists trying to figure me out, like I’m some Rubix Cube of a person that just simply needs solved. All I want is to be normal. I want to be just happy, not happy and sad. I want to be able to trust the people around me. I want to be liked by everyone.

Sometimes I put my back to my bedroom door and slide to the floor. I’ll hug my knees and focus on something, anything to get my mind off of everything. My psychologist, or whatever, tells me that remembering is the only way I can ever feel better. No degree could ever make her understand that sometimes it’s better to stop thinking about it. I’d rather forget, forget and move on, forget and never go back, just please, oh God, please, let me forget. I want to forget everything I’ve ever done, ever seen, ever felt. I want to forget absolutely everything. I want to forget everyone I’ve ever met, loved, cared about, hated, cried over, trusted, everyone I’ve ever known, and I want them to forget me, because I just don’t think I’m worth knowing and keeping around, and if they don’t remember me, they can’t remember anything I’ve ever done or said or thought or felt. Sometimes things are better forgotten, pushed to the back of the mind, and never, ever discussed.

Really, I consider myself to be alone. The way I think is – if no one cares about me, why should I care about them? Caring about someone leads to needing someone, and needing someone leads to pain, and hurt, and I just can’t do hurt anymore, because who knows how much more of this I can take, how much more hurt and heartbreak and disappointment I can take before I finally break and can’t be put back together? I have a Humpty Dumpty heart, and once it finally breaks, no one will be able to put it back together, not any of my friends, or any of my family, because even if they can patch it back together it will just be an empty shell and a painful reminder of who I was and who I’ll never be able to be again.

I don’t know why everyone likes to hurt me. I don’t know what it is about me that makes people want to hurt me, to break me, to watch me suffer and cry and push me as far as they can. I just don’t know. Everyone I’ve ever met has tried to hurt me in some way, or treated me like I’m this sad story of a teenage boy that isn’t really a person but rather something that needs to be dealt with, like a leaky roof or a weed in a pretty garden. And that’s how I feel, like a weed in a pretty garden, surrounded by all of these perfect people and their perfect friends who go to their perfect homes that are all so God damn perfect and they all look the same because being different is not okay, not at all, because if you’re different, you’re a freak, and I’m different, and I’m a freak, and no one wants to be friends with a freak, and no one is friends with a freak, because they’re different. And different is not okay.

And sometimes I don’t know why I continue, why I bother, because I honestly just think no one cares about me, and I don’t blame them, because what’s so great about me? I mean, really. I mean, other than writing, what am I good at? I’m good at costing my parents so much money with my pills, making my parents stressed because we’re always so low on money that I feel like I need to get a job, but I can’t get a job because I’m insane. I’m good at embarrassing my sister, who thinks I don’t see those looks that she gives her friends when I’m around, like, sorry for bringing the crazy kid, I had no choice, and it hurts a lot when I see that but I don’t want her to know that I know. I’m good at slitting my damn wrists, which are so scarred that it’s harder to see white skin than pink cuts, either fresh and new or old and trying to close. I’m good at staining my bed sheets red, and crying into a pillow, and screaming on the inside. And I’m great at being depressed, because it’s all I can do, and it’s always consuming my thoughts and my heart and even my writing.

Why are you still even reading this? After everything I’ve told you about how I feel, why do you still care? Why haven’t you left yet like everyone else? Why have you stuck around? I know you must have some plans of hurting me, because that’s the only way you’re still reading this, and that’s the only reason you still care, and that’s the only reason you haven’t left. Because, like I said, I’m not all that great, and I know it. More importantly, I guess, why am I still here? Why haven’t I ended everything yet? I guess I’m waiting. I don’t really know what I’m waiting for, but I’m waiting for something. Maybe I’m waiting for something to get better, even though I don’t see how that’s possible. Maybe I’m waiting for someone to be my friend, even though I’m not likable. Maybe I’m waiting for my small pockets of hope to finally flicker out. I don’t know. But I’m tired of waiting. And I’m tired of pain. And I’m tired of never being good enough. And I can’t wait to sleep, and to not be burdened with the simple act of waking up.

Love Always,

Daniel