Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Pondering · Prose · Writing

You don’t want to read this. 

Right now I kind of want to kill myself.

I know this isn’t a nice thing to read but pretending like it is not true makes it worse.

No one really wants to hear about these feelings.

When they ask, “How are you doing?”

The response of “I rather wish I was dead at the moment,” is generally not well received.

I know this because I’ve done it.

I’ve had suicidal feeling since I was about 14 and depression, well, I am pretty sure I was born depressed.


Despair is the first emotion I remember, my first memory. It was a sense more than it was a vision.

How can a child be born which such sadness?

Attempting to be honest about my pain to my parents resulted in denial on their end of my suffering. I shouldn’t have anything to depressed about at 5 years old, right? Adults have the right to feel, children do not. This is what I learned early on.


I was called sensitive and delicate, though highly intelligent. This is what I depended on. I was the smart one. The good student. Until I wasn’t and all the hopes and dreams my parents had for me came crashing down. It’s hard to keep up appearances when you are falling apart.


I loved books and hid away inside of them. I read constantly. Sometimes a book or two a day. I read series after series. I wrote stories and kept a diary. I would dream about being pretty and loved and accepted. I thought, when I graduate high school top of my class, I’ll show them. I’ll be a scientist. I’ll be a dancer. I will be everything I dream of and I will be happy.


Here I stand, 28 years old. Still wishing to feel beautiful and searching for love. I have spent 10 years in college and I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth. Spending hours doing makeup work and fighting to get everything done. Nothing has come simply or easy for me.     


I live off the beaten path.

It’s hard to find others in this isolated life. I have searched in the darkest of places. I brought a light and matches.

Monsters lurk in the trees and pretend to be my friends. They tell me, “I’ve been looking for you. I have been waiting in this dark so long.” I give them the matches and watch my forest burn down. I end running and tangled in ivy, with skinned elbows and knees.


I wish I could live in the city and paint a big red rotten smile on my face and mean it. I would walk down the streets unafraid and unaffected by the way my life rotates uninhibited by the memories. The hauntings of childhood stories. 

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