The Truth of This Matter

I have been asked why I wanted to die so badly a week ago.

I wanted to die not because I felt overwhelmed, or useless, or anything like that – I have been worthless and stained my whole life, so no, those would not manifest in this way, not now. I wanted to die so badly not because I feel as if I am hopeless, and not because I feel alone. People have reiterated that they care and I understand that.

I wanted – and, honestly, maybe even still want to – die, because I am a runner. That is all I have ever done. I run from memories and people. I am that person who sees the problem, who takes the problem, who analyzes the problem, and then, if there is not any other way to solve it other than facing an agony that is much more comfortable staying hidden, I hide it. I bury it. And I scream and run away, as fast and as far as I can, until I no longer have to delve into the crevices of a mind that I cannot stand to be saddled with any longer.

Maybe I am wrong, in this way, but who are you to tell me otherwise? I am no one's asset, and I have pushed everyone who cares away or to their breaking point, to where they believe caring is no longer enough. I have pushed people away with violence and immaturity and anger, and I have also pushed people away by being needy and complaining and begging for help and forgiveness. I have pushed people to break, such as my father, and I have alone caused agony that I cannot bear to face.

I want to die because, in the end, no matter what happens from this point forward, I have learned that my head is oh-so-broken, and my heart may as well be nonexistent. That caring for people does nothing. That ignoring things does nothing.

That I cannot face what is right there, and it has torn me to absolutely unrecognizable pieces.

I am sorry.