I get it. I’m depressed. I have anxiety. I’m autistic. I hate going out. I’m terrified of other people. I’m a hermit. I can’t take care of myself. I get it.
I’m an inconvenience.
To myself. And yes, I know, to you. Contrary to your belief, I am indeed aware that I am an inconvenience to you. I’m a parasite to you. When I listed off everything that’s wrong with me and how much I hate it and how much I hate that other people get angry with me because they don’t like how I am, I was completely aware that you’re dealing with me and that it’s problematic. I am not oblivious to the damage that I do every day by existing around you. You always tell me to push through things, because things just “have to get done”, but I’m not like you. I can’t just get up and get over these problems. I spend every moment of every day thinking about it. All of it. Not that that matters. To you.
I’m everyone’s diary. I open up when you want me to, I close when you want me to, I take every beating and all of your harsh words and rants and mark them down for you forever. But like a diary, I cannot speak to you about my problems. Not because I am incapable, but because it’s further problematic.
All of my problems apparently aren’t my problems. They’re yours.
I’m inconvenient. I’m a waste of a person. I should just kill myself already.
I get it.
I’ve been thinking about it for days.
Get
out
of
my
head.