A letter from the heart, for a failed suicide attempt. Oneshot
Have you ever noticed how easy it is to be surrounded by people all of the time, and yet still feel dreadfully alone. Loneliness is a cloak I can’t wear, a disease I can’t cure. It hangs on me like a pall, wrapping around me like a shroud. Very soon, that shroud will be real and the loneliness won’t dog my heels every waking minute of my life.
I have friends; they say they love me. I have family; they say they love me. I have fans; they say they love me. And yet, I don’t know why. I have nothing to offer, nothing to give except my worthless, pointless, useless self. I don’t know what people want to give me in return for this shallow offering. Is it pity? Is it strength? I hope so, because I have none. I’m a shell, a hollow husk of whatever it is that people imagine me to be. Maybe I'm whatever their needs project onto me? But really, there’s nothing inside except booze, drugs and pain.
If I clean up, then, well then there’s only pain left. Without the pills and booze, the pain has more room to grow, to spread and fester like an open wound. Without the pills and booze there’s nothing to numb it. So now can you tell me it’s better if I clean up? Can you? No, I don’t think so. Best to get rid of all three at once.
Yeah, I didn’t say it flamboyantly or eloquently, but I did say it.