This is who I am. I'm not the person I was about. . . . seven hours ago. (It's about ten.) I've given up. Completely. I'm not the person that my minds trying to convince me I am. I'm not the girl who tries to live a life that I used to dream of. Because I know that I'm faking it. Myself, for I am being me. All my friends are "falling in love". Please. Love. That thing that I've read about in books that says it's the most wonderful feeling in the world. That it'll keep you warm on wintery nights. Blankets will do that just fine, thank you. Love. The "feeling" that makes you feel safe and complete, then rips you to shreds. I know not of that mystical feeling. Except that it doesn't exist. I've cut myself off from the stupid belief that it does. I, "Chrissy", will have no part in that life. Ever. I thought I was, but who the hell was I kidding? I just proved to myself that there is a big difference from fantasy, and reality.
I'm the girl who'll be stuck in a book, ignoring life because the life in the book is so much better than the one I'm living. And at least in the book, there's a bittersweet/happy ending. Unlike real life.
The only people who matter to me are my friends. They are great friends, but I'm starting to think that maybe I should go on with my plan. Shock treatment. Electricity at the temples for repeated measurements. Then, assuming I don't accidentally kill myself, I'd be free of every memory I ever had. I'd have to live life all over again.
But considering my past, maybe it's the best option.
Maybe the hope of one day being free of myself, is the only thing that makes me write this. In hopes that one day, one of my "friends" will read it. And understand. That it's just. . . . I may just do it. And if I do. I'll need their help making new memories. And remembering them if they'd still want me. And telling me what I told them.
I think that's the only reason why I'm alive today.
For them.
But then again, one can only live day by day.
Who knows? I may not be here tomorrow.
I'm the girl who'll be stuck in a book, ignoring life because the life in the book is so much better than the one I'm living. And at least in the book, there's a bittersweet/happy ending. Unlike real life.
The only people who matter to me are my friends. They are great friends, but I'm starting to think that maybe I should go on with my plan. Shock treatment. Electricity at the temples for repeated measurements. Then, assuming I don't accidentally kill myself, I'd be free of every memory I ever had. I'd have to live life all over again.
But considering my past, maybe it's the best option.
Maybe the hope of one day being free of myself, is the only thing that makes me write this. In hopes that one day, one of my "friends" will read it. And understand. That it's just. . . . I may just do it. And if I do. I'll need their help making new memories. And remembering them if they'd still want me. And telling me what I told them.
I think that's the only reason why I'm alive today.
For them.
But then again, one can only live day by day.
Who knows? I may not be here tomorrow.
