When I was in 6th grade, beaten and worthless and unable to bear the pain anymore, I promised myself that if by the time I graduated high school, I had not yet found a reason to make life worth living, I would kill myself.
I was young and hoped that there was something still in store for me, that maybe I could find my adventure, like the ones I always read about me and during the time between the painful present and the hoped for future, I comforted myself with the knowledge that if my life proved to be one of alternating moments of mundane and pain, it could easily be ended by the light press of a knife to a soft neck. I was soft, and always being bruised, even the words bruised.
But things got better, I never had my adventure, but I became something that resembled happy. I decided that I wouldn’t off myself, that there could be some pleasures in living. That maybe there was still a chance of finding fulfilment and fun even in adulthood. For what now feels like a brief moment, I wanted to live.
But now that old me is returning as my day of graduation grows near. What is my reason for living? What’s the point? It’s not so much as a desire to die, but an indifference to living. There doesn’t seem to be anything worth it. I can’t feel my heartbeat. Good me wants to believe that a future I can enjoy is right around the corner, all I have to do is be patient and keep trying, but the broken girl I never quite resolved my issues with is telling me the knives are right down stairs. It wouldn’t hurt for long, and you always wanted to sleep forever.
I wonder which I’ll choose?
