4 years
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I want to die! I hate my life. I hate the way God made me. Everything is so hard that others find easy. I’m on so much medication so I can function. I have no power over my life. I’m always the one in need the f help and people take advantage. I also allow myself to be emotionally manipulated and I pay the price. Everything has gone wrong. God is supposed to be a good father. Well he didn’t answer my prayers or help me when I was young. If I would have gotten my medication when I was a kid, I wouldn’t be this way. I pray and nothing. I need helps in area if my life. I need someone helping me navigate through all my problems. God protects me fm the cops. My registration tags are expired, fees are paid, but my car won’t pass the smog. My mental health was deteriorating in the fall and I had to work. I couldn’t face things and I didn’t appear in court, so My license is suspended. I have to drive to get to work. I need help!

New Confession

I wrote a few days ago about never being comforted by the people who I love and who claim to love me. like most confessions I make here, I often start to reevaluate after I hit submit and will eventually begin to feel more level headed about whatever dramatic confession of emotion I decided to spew. this is not one of those times. I had a procedure today- invasive and painful. i knew it wasn’t going to be comfortable, but then afterwards I got bad news from the results. yeah, as I suspected for a long time, I’ve got cancer in me. pre-cancer, anyway. but the doctor let me know today that considering how young I am and other aspects of my history, I shouldn’t have these huge pre-cancerous growths in me. and I mean huge. how often do you have a doctor look at you and go “wow, that was the largest polyp I’ve ever seen in a 24 year old.” anyway… after this, my boyfriend of 6 years drove me to our house, almost completely all in silence. go inside, no real words spoken. nothing to say about it. any of it. just flops onto the couch and tells me he has a headache. makes me make him food and tuck him into our bed because he ALWAYS flops onto the couch when we get home, and then proceeds to complain about how uncomfortable it is to sleep on it and how sore he is. he at least tells me he loves me, I suppose, but nothing else. I say “I love you more”, like I frequently do, which is supposed to prompt a “No you don’t”, and a short reason as to why HE loves ME more. this time, he just says nothing nothing. nothing nothing nothing. now I get to go upstairs, cook myself a meal after being asked not to eat for 3 days, and then sit alone in my living room with only my thoughts. these f****** thoughts. why do I never get to be the baby. why do I never get to be the one tucked. why do I never get to be the one who gets their back scratched and their hair played with until they sleep. why do I never get asked if I’m okay. it’s like I was open with a disease that makes it so that whenever I’m upset, or hurting, or crying, I give off a noxious gas that makes everybody sick. I hate it here.

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