help

There’s nothing that can satisfy me other than a bullet piercing through my brain.

I need help. I don’t know how to let people help me.

I need help. I don’t know how to obtain it.

I need help. The help that I’m getting only fuels the self-deprecating behaviours that I’m trying to get away from as it only showcases my own failures in communication. A psychiatrist accurately can’t help a patient who doesn’t know how to speak. I know this via firsthand experience.

I need help. The only thoughts that calm me are of music, or of me, three days after my birthday, putting the bullet through my head.

I’ve been practicing angles. Trying to find which will permeate the brainstem.

The rest of this will be my thoughts directly transcribed, no editing, even grammatically. Just my mind flowing onto my fingertips onto this page.

I need help.

Every facet of my life only showcases my issues. It doesn’t matter if I’m on top of the world, meeting new people, or simply working at my job. Everyone notices that I am mentally drained.
Everyone becomes aware that I have “confidence issues”, sometimes (in differing individual cases) within an hour of us first being aware of each other’s existence.

Please kill me.

At least they care enough to tell me that they want me to get better.

But I wish I didn’t have these issues. I’ve taken as many steps as recommended to get through this, and nothing is working.

Nothing is working. Nothing has ever worked aside from music. And when I showed a new friend the songs I listen to, he says that they indirectly fuel my issues due to the song’s instrumental undertones. But I can’t just stop listening to them.

I’m literally addicted. Each time I listen to them, it’s as if I’m hearing it for the first time. Like I’m being embraced by imaginary arms for the duration of the song. I cannot be outside of my house without my headphones, or else I have a high chance of breaking down emotionally. Please murder me.

If I don’t listen to them, I’ll get measurably more suicidal.

It feels exactly as ridiculous to type out as much as it is for you to read. So just imagine living like this and not being able to change anything about it, for the past five years.

Help. Please. What I’m doing isn’t living. And even if you want to call it that, I’m not getting much of a say in what goes on in my own life.

Whoever is reading this, if we ever see each other in person, I want you to put a knife through my throat.

Who knows. I’d probably help you slice it along the way.