Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Ghost of Me.


by Thank_MCR 1 review

Quick explanation.

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Romance - Characters: Bob Bryar - Published: 2012-03-01 - Updated: 2012-03-01 - 783 words

Hey guys.
I want to explain myself here.

Yes, I'm pretty deep here, and no, I can't see a light at the end of the tunnel. But I know it's there... somewhere.

Music, used to help me through this, but for some reason, not even listening to The Black Parade on repeat is really getting to me.
I try to find the joy in small things, but it's difficult.
I fucking love writing, singing and drawing.
That's basically why I'm still here.
And the simple fact that no matter what shit I'm going through, I'm just not damn selfish enough to take my own life. I don't want my parents to have to deal with a funeral, or my friends. It could scar them for life.
It helps that I don't believe in God. I don't believe in an afterlife.
Truthfully, when my friends ask where we go after I die, I tell them we march in the black parade, though I don't believe it myself half the time.
Sometimes I'm pretty sure it's just the end and we rot in the ground with our bodies.
What happened was, three weeks ago I came out as bi-romantic. (and asexual as of now)
So I've got homophobia looming.
Then last week, my friend told me something.
This guy I've been talking to (I thought him a friend) told everyone we're going to prom together. (Which is bullSHIT.)
He's kindov the 'playa' guy. He sleeps around.
So now I'm a slut, apparently.
And yesterday, a girl I'm close friends with turned me down when I asked her to prom.
It's not that she's straight, but she has a date.
I guess I can't be mad at her about it, but I really like her.
The thought of her going with this guy makes me rather sad.
I have play practice most nights (several hours) so I don't have time to write.
Which is one of the things I enjoy.
I mean... I like the musical we're doing and I like practice.
But it's really exhausting.
I'm sick.
Purging most mornings. (Not possibly pregnant though, so don't even think that.)
No other signs of sickness.
Big class assignment due tomorrow.
And my mom 'Doesn't appreciate' when I get on the computer as soon as I get home.
Sorry to say this, mum, but it's my whole fucking life.
I don't have money to join a martial arts class, like someone suggested.
I don't really have money for anything. And I can't get a job because I live so far out of town.
I can't talk to my mom, she's too happy and optimistic and decides not to see the realistic side of life.
I know I'm not the only one who is going through this shit.
I know other people who are right now.
What's worse is when they ask me for advice SO MANY TIMES. All I can do is show them my arm and tell them not to ask me.
That note was not me giving up.
It was not my goodbye.
This isn't either.
I know that even though life is shit right now, I'll get through.
I know that in t-minus-4 years I'll be out of this homophobic podunk fuck town where all they do is inbreed and fuck and be homophobic.
I know things will stop spinning so fast, and that eventually, it'll stop. I'll be a little dizzy, but I'll be alive still.
I know that it gets better, because I've seen it happen before.
I know that in years, I'll look back at my scars and THIS RIGHT HERE, and I'll think about how lucky I am.
I'll be proud of these scars someday.
In fact, even though I'm still struggling with it even now, I am proud of being a cutter.
It sounds horrible and stupid, but to me, it means I haven't given up.
That I'm still struggling.
That I still have fight left in me.
That I am here, right now.
And that I am alive.
I'll still write more of these throughout the years.
I know I will.
Because life sucks.
This isn't my story of victory.
This isn't my story of defeat.
This is just... me.
Thank you everyone who wrote to me, telling me not to off myself and not to give up and all these pretty amazing metaphors for 'don't give up'. I know, this stuff I've written in the past 10 minutes probably looks like some really staged thing, but it isn't. I just think in monologue.

I'm going to go now.
I have play practice soon.

Transmission over,
Cyanide Corpse.

No, my killjoy name is not Heartbroken Hellraiser, it's Cyanide Corpse.
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