Sometimes I stumble across old writings, real written words.
I vaguely remember being in the hospital shortly before my eighteenth birthday. (I couldn’t do it after I turned eighteen - legally an adult and nothing’s sad about that, anymore.)
I wrote and wrote and wrote about how I wasn’t depressed, I couldn’t be depressed, I wouldn’t allow myself to be depressed. I screamed about how depression was a choice and I just needed to choose happiness and yes, I tried to kill myself but no, I didn’t need pills, pills are for the weak and I’m not weak and it’s all in my head and I should be able to control it, I should be able to control everything and I never realized that I couldn’t, that I can’t and I refused the pills and swore I was smarter than that, that I could do anything, everything, that I didn’t need anything.
The past is in the past.
People keep telling me that, over and over again but somehow I keep letting it slip into my present and I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed and these words are my words and I’m weak and I’m vulnerable and I’m naked in front of you and all you do is tell me I’m wrong.
I vaguely remember being in the hospital shortly after the new year.
I cried and cried and cried and I’d wake in the middle of the night and I couldn’t fall back asleep and I’d beg and plead to see the doctor but no, no, no, I’m not allowed to, I’m never allowed to because I swore I wasn’t suicidal, as if that was the worst thing to be, as if, if I were, I’d never be let out without forced on pills and I’ve seen those on pills and they walk around like zombies and they can’t speak clearly, let alone think. I refused to take anything other than vitamins and when the time came that someone wanted to force pills down my throat, I cried some more.
Sometimes crying is the worse thing you can do and now I’m scared, scared, scared and I never want to cry in front of others because I clearly remember being in the hospital.
