I needed to tell someone this.

You make me hate myself more than I already do. Not in the sense that I’m embarrassed to merely be me, like you point out that I’m wearing the same clothes two days in a row in front of a crowd. More like you make me want to kill myself more than I already have. Which I have been lately. Of course I can’t actually say that to anyone. Why, because no one would really care and I also don’t want to go back to the hospital. I just want to be better. And I’m not. And I don’t think I ever will be. But why should I have to say anything? Why don’t you know? I’m not a good actor. I wear my feelings on my face, and no one cares to read them or even look for them. Possibly they see them and just don’t care. Don’t have time. But soon I feel... like I won’t have time either. I feel like my depression is like Venom not like the poison but the movie with a whole lot less comedy and where the monster doesn’t want me alive it wants me dead. I have to fight the voices in my head daily every second of every day there is a battle that I have with myself just to live to tomorrow. Do you know how exhausting that is? And you make it worse. Why don’t you love me? What did I do? I try to be good enough for you, I try to make you love me and it’s not working it never works but I still try. I think I believe that if I get you to love me then maybe I will too. But you don’t or can’t and I don’t know why, but I guess I can’t blame you I don’t love me either. You of all people should love me though. Did you know that the hormone oxytocin is released when a mother gives birth? I try to convince myself that maybe it wasn’t released when you gave birth to me and maybe that’s the reason you don’t love me. That it’s not my fault, but that doesn’t really work. I’m going to try and fall asleep now. I’m going to try not to think of the pill bottle on my night stand or the knife in my closet or the numerous other ways I’ve thought about ending me. I hope to see you tomorrow. I love you.