I’m seeing someone.
I mean, that’s great, and I like him. But liking someone takes time and feelings need to grow. I feel so pressured by my friends to like Jon. They love him so much and support us so much but I feel like if I’m not in love with him in like a few weeks then I’m gonna get killed. And what if my feelings change? It happens you know. I feel like if there isn’t a really good reason for us to break up then I’m gonna look like the worst person on earth.
I have enough stress. I’m leaving in 5 weeks, we might not even last while I’m gone.
I just need space from the pressure of it all.

I don’t think my family ever thinks about my feelings.
My nan just died. She is the only grandparent to me. She was my nan. April had pop, I had her. I’m clearly taking this hard.
I wake up, go to work, go to the home. This whole week has been that. I haven’t had a day. I’m exhausted.
I’m clearly pissed off and not happy, and they just don’t get it.
I’m just so done.

Dealing with things was never something I was good at. I crack under pressure. I can’t handle yelling, I usually cry. I can’t handle authority figures being upset with me, I cry. I can’t handle my friends distancing from me, I cry. My friends are my world. They’re more of my family, then my family. I know how I am, I’m completely annoying and sometimes I get clingy. But I mean the best, I’m a good person, sometimes. Sarcasm is kinda my thing but..
So, dealing with my situation now is suffocating. I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I’m struggling financially, I’m putting in a notice at work, I’m pretty sure I’ve become a hypochondriac, and I can’t stand to see myself anymore. I’m just in a struggle and trying to balance a happy presence with my depression is honestly tiring. It’s started to crack already, my bitchy front and sarcastic exterior are more seen lately, I can’t help it. I don’t know how to do this anymore, I don’t know how long I can pretend like I’m okay, because I’m not.

My birthday is the one day a year in which I feel like I should matter. Now every year, we go out to eat and I get a cake. That’s my birthday. So I look forward to those things. However the last couple of years I kinda matter less and less, which was confirmed this year when I asked to go to Cora’s for breakfast or brunch or whatever, no, not allowed. I asked for a chocolate cake, no, not allowed. Cool man, thanks parents. Like I know those are the most pointless things to be mad about but living with this family in this house, I don’t feel like I’m cared about anymore so when a day rolls around in which I should matter the most, and the little things I want are pushed aside, it’s a bummer. I should be happy that this year I’m getting a gift cause I haven’t gotten one in….god knows how many years. I’m just sad. Last year was the worst birthday ever, and I just don’t think I’m even gonna be acknowledged for more then an hour, like every other day.

I’m not okay anymore.

How my mother is still married to my father is beyond me.

When me and my sister used to sit around and talk about their divorcee and who would go with who we weren’t fucking around cause even back then he was a fucking douche.

And he’s only gotten worse as we’ve gotten older. He’s literally a giant fucking asshole to us, he’s sarcastic and rude and has tremendous temper problems, he takes everything out of proportion and he doesn’t care about your feelings in the process, he can never be wrong and will fight you until the end of time to prove he is right, even if he’s 100% not. He’s honestly the biggest dick, the biggest asshole, and the biggest jerk I have ever come across in my life.

I would never be with someone who was that insensitive to my feelings and to others. I would never be with someone who treats people the way he treats us. I would never be with someone who was so full of themselves.

I don’t understand my mother, I don’t understand how he’s the most liked in his family and I don’t understand why when I say I don’t like my father when other people come back saying he’s the best man they’ve ever met. Cause he’s the worst one I’ve met. 

I should be so happy. 
I really should be. 
Tomorrow is the last day of exams for me, all I have to do after my exam is type up a two-page response to a question and send it off. And I’m done. Then it’s summer, and I can focus on work and friends and saving up for Harlow.
And I’m so excited about Harlow, I really am, when I talk about it and plan things I’m truly happy for that time. But every other time of day is hard. I just want to sleep and wake up away from here.
I’m so depressed all the time, and it’s honestly making me more upset. When I went through this depression years ago, I had a fucking reason. I was bullied and assaulted and hurt and beaten down and being tested all the time for cancer, I had a fucking reason to want to die. What’s my reason now? I don’t want to be home? That’s not a reason, that’s every person who doesn’t get along with their parents. I honestly don’t have a reason anymore yet I’m depressed, and not having a reason makes me more upset because I don’t understand why I’m not happy.
I should be so so so happy. And I’m so far from happy. 
My friends know I’m struggling at home, sure, but they don’t know that I sit in my room and contemplate if I’ll leave it that day. They don’t know that I have to scream into a pillow and cry until I’m so tired that I have to sleep so I restrain from cutting myself, because if I cut they’ll notice and I can’t have them noticing, or they’d stop me and once I start I don’t know if I can stop. They don’t know that I have pain killers just sitting on my desk begging me to down them liked I did back in high school. I tired to OD on many occasions and though never successful, that was because I didn’t know what exactly to take. But I do know now. I know exactly what combinations I could mix that would knock me out or give me a high or potentially kill me. And I have to again restrain myself because I don’t actually want to die. I just….
I want it to all stop. I want the stress to stop. I want the anger to stop. I want the pain to stop. I want the past to stop being a memory. 
I can’t remember half my childhood, I honestly don’t know why; maybe I’m blocking things out for a reason or maybe I did smoke way too much weed in middle school to be able to recall anything but I wish I didn’t remember my teenage years. I wish everything before I was 17 suddenly faded away like my childhood and I only remembered the dumb things like a book I read or one rainy day when I sat at home and counted the seconds between thunder and lightening. 
I want to forget every fucking shitty thing I’ve been through. And you know, I don’t ever want to compare myself to others shitty lives because you don’t know what someone has been through but it’s safe to say that I’ve been through the damn ringer. I’ve been through so much fucking shit that I didn’t deserve, and I’m so sick of remembering any of it. I don’t want to kill myself and give people the satisfaction that I did what half of them want me to, but I don’t know if I want to grow old anymore. That’s why I honestly feel so fucked up. I am so fucking fucked up,
You know how you day dream about what you’d do with 1 million dollars or what life would be like with your current crush? I day dream of getting diagnosed with cancer finally, or being hit by a car and surviving, or being raped again and put into the hospital. I day-dream of the most morbid fucking shit, and I don’t know why. 
I guess I half know why. I’d like to see who actually gives a shit about my well being in life. I’d like to see who would come visit me in a hospital if they knew I’d been hit by a car or brutally assaulted or diagnosed with a serious disease and needed life saving surgery or something. 
I’d like to see who really cares. And I’d like to see what life would be like when they all get a fright that I might have actually died. Maybe the pain would stop for a bit. Maybe I’d actually feel loved other then this empty pit of nothing. I feel nothing but pain and sadness and wanting. I want so bad to actually feel like people care about me, and I honestly never do anymore. 
I know my friends love me, and I know my family loves me, but I just don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel like I’m actually truly cared for. Like, if I died tomorrow, yeah they’d be sad but not devastated, kind of the sad you feel when a character you like in a movie dies. It saddens you, and maybe you cried when it happened, but oh well, they’re gone and it’s oh well. That’s how I feel everyone would feel. But the thing is, is that I know differently.  That’s what’s so fucked up. I know that’s what wouldn’t happen, I know people would be very fucking upset if I died, but I don’t feel it. I feel like I’m that friend that you have around because you have no one else at the time, but you could drop me at any second and not care. I’m that family member that no one really likes but they tolerate around the holidays because it’s family. 

I just want to stop being so fucked up.

It’s not that I’m depressed in the same way I was years ago, cause I’m doing much better since then. I don’t want to die, I just want a change and I’m stuck in this rut and I can’t get out and I need a distraction so I can’t breathe.
The little things start to build up and they become the big things. I need to move out but there’s no way I can afford that right now and I also don’t want to move out by myself so it’s not possible for at least a year.
But my parents are the problem. Yes, they love me and provide for me but that doesn’t mean I can live with them. I can’t escape their shit. Their irritating shit. I can’t go a day without being pissed off and more then likely criticized for some choice ive made in life that day. I don’t know how to handle them anymore. They treat me like my past never happened and that’s not okay. I don’t need sympathy or anything but I so need understanding.

I don’t want to feel pain anymore. But to stop feeling this pain I would have to die. I don’t want to die. I just want it all to stop.

I never thought of rape as sex. I never associate losing my virginity with when I was assaulted. My friends all have mixed versions of my “first time.” Half of them think it was my night with Fred, which was the next time I had sex. It was the first time I chose to have sex so I believe that was when I lost my virginity, because it was when I was ready. My friends from high school all believe it was Collin, because I couldn’t handle telling them I decided my “first time” to be with Fred, when I was wasted at a party, so they think Fred was a random one night stand long after Collin. No one truly knows exactly when I lost it but me. But then, I told one person once. High school was over and I was moving away, he was my boyfriend and I trusted him. When I told him I was assaulted he didn’t really say anything, I guess you don’t always know what to say in those situations, so I was fine with that. He never brought it up or asked me about it, it was like I never told him. Then once we broke up he broadcasted it in a comment on Facebook. Thankfully it got taken down, and because he had made comments before that were un-true, no one ever asked me if that was true. And I moved on, and decided no one needed to know again, I bottled it back up. And then I told becs and es. They know now, and…talking about it…telling people…I’ve never said it out loud until that night. When I told Stephen it was over Facebook messaging, I never had to see his reaction, hear him say a response, hear myself speak it. And talking about it never made it better. Reliving my past doesn’t make anything better. It fucked me up. I’m fucked up. What that guy took from me wasn’t my virginity. He took my dignity, he took my innocence…he took my happiness. But my virginity is my own to give away, it’s not something someone can take from me. So I lost my virginity when I was wasted at a St. Patricks Day party, to a guy named Fred, in a girl named Megan’s bed, while she was in it. That’s the story I’d tell my kids and future partner because that was my drunken decision to have sex, and I’m damn proud of that memory. I don’t associate my rape with my virginity because it simply isn’t. I was raped at 15. But I lost my virginity at 17, because I chose to have sex, I chose to sleep with Fred.