Turns out having a panic attack miles above the ground kinda sucks. You can’t talk to anyone who can take the pain away, and it leads to some of the most non sensical thoughts I’ve ever had. So I wrote them down. Other than for spelling this is just a word dump of a kid in way over his head, way above the clouds.
Whenever I’m honest with someone I tell them I hate my writing. People tell me it’s high quality writing, and can’t seem to understand why I would hate it. Despite always having a reasoning for why I hate my writing I don’t think I’ve ever actually given an honest answer. Ironically I’m not sure if I’ve ever written anything honest either. If anything my writing is just another in a long list of veils I’ve put up to convince myself that I’m fine. I mean sure, the things I talk about in my writing are generally true, and yes I have been telling people that I’ve been having issues, but it’s not real. I soften everything. Pretty words and flowy sentences mask an absolutely disgusting thought process. I don’t dream of girls who look like flowers and parties with my emotions. Life to me isn’t a fucking poem, and there’s no beauty in the things I see. I had this idea to write about reclaiming childhood innocence on this trip. I had this whole idea to talk about the happiness on that couples face as they shared with me the nuances of their culture without being able to understand a single word they were saying, but now I don’t see the point. Nothing about that time I shared with them is going to change me. It just. Becomes another story I can tell everyone so they stop looking at me like I’m fragile. I’m not fragile I’m broken. No no I know, I’m “having abnormal response to a traumatic event.” Ya I get it. There’s no such thing as being broken. There’s no being broken because you can’t fix someone, and the more you try to fix someone the more broken they become in your own head. I guess all this writing worked cuz trying to find a way to jump out of this airplane doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore. Honestly I think I just want to talk to somebody. Actually I don’t think I want to talk I kinda want to listen for a little bit. No I changed my mind I just want to talk. I just want to scream and cry and break down and have someone witness it all. I don’t want it to be a conversation I want to be hysterical for a couple of minutes. I want someone in my head holding my hand while this storm rages on because I can’t do it alone anymore. It hurts. It always hurts. I used to think that people would shoot themselves in the head to let that storm out, but I’m starting to think they put holes in their head to let other people in. If i showed you the door into my head would you walk through it? Would we sit together for hours while the world tore itself apart? After seeing that nightmare would you ever let me go? Would you want to stay? Would someone paint a picture of us sitting together on that park bench in the middle of my misery? Would you think I’m selfish for letting you absorb my pain? Would I run away from you like they ran away from me? All completely pointless questions that don’t actually ask anything at all. Pointless because no one is going to answer them, and unsuitable as true questions because even if someone did I probably wouldn’t listen. I feel bad saying it, but often I’m not actually having conversations with you all. Physically I’m there while mentally I’m trying to repair whatever damage you unknowingly just caused me. Conversations are minefields and I find floating over them hurts far less than actually having them. Don’t worry guys I just watched a sad movie and decided I hated life. That’s not accurate I didn’t decide I hate life I just decided I couldn’t come up with a reason that I should keep doing it. Even that isn’t that accurate. I stopped having a real reason to keep doing it a long time ago. The reason I’m sticking with is trying to find a reason. Kinda stupid huh? Live life to find a reason to keep living. It’s not sustainable, and is probably the reason I find myself having arguments with myself over the contents of bottles, but it’s all I have. On another note please don’t list yourself I should keep going. Not only with my inner response probably disappoint you, but it’s incredibly selfish of you to think that I should keep living for you. If we are being honest saying that will just show you don’t actually care about me. It’s kinda a hard concept to grasp but if you don’t understand my logic maybe ask me sometime. I would actually really appreciate people asking me what I thought about things. I’m tired of people asking how I am. Like how do you think I am? I tried to kill myself and I haven’t come to a decision about wether or not I’m glad I’m still alive, but other than that I’m fucking peachy. I’m sorry that’s a bit harsh but seriously though I don’t really know what people want me to say. I get it though it’s a sensitive topic, but seriously ask about it. Any question goes. I want people to understand. All those things you’ve always wondered about depression and suicide just ask. Believe me I probably want to talk about it. God damn I rambled a lot. I think I’ll post this in full once I get wifi.