Truth of Being Me

Friends and family,

I don't want to scare you or to make you feel guilty. I just want you to hear me one last time.

I want you to understand my fear of life, my fear of the world, my fear of existing. "But what to fear?" Many would ask me. Life is the most precious thing we have, so why fear it? Why disappear? So, I ask you: Why live if you're already dead? If you don't feel you deserve to have a life? If you don't feel like you're existing? For what?

I feel this way every day. I wake up wishing to disappear; to go far from this life; this place.

I see the world: without color, without life, without emotion, without taste. Even sounds sound different. Honking cars become stress noises, friends talking become traps of uncertainty, smiling couples - the dread of loneliness. Everything becomes gloomy and dark, convenient, and nonsense.

This is how I came to see life, so why continue with it if even the food becomes indifferent, tastes the same? Why live if I'm only going to see suffering?

Why live if everything causes pain? For what if I no longer live?

I am not afraid of death, but to remain here. I have so many reasons not to exist, but I am still here, with millions of things that I've lost, but I can even handle it. Why? What is the reason for always having hope? To have one more chance? Why can't my heart just stop beating and let me be consumed by death? Why?

I hate life so much for it, for causing me pain and forcing me to move on. I hate that it gives me compassion, dreams, and doesn't let me go.

But, recently, my unhappiness grows with each passing day, and I don't think I can take it anymore. The certainty that I have no place in the world and that I am invisible. I'm nothing in the middle of a million. I'm nothing in my home.

All my life, I was the best daughter, student, friend, and sister I could be. I struggled and dedicated myself to be recognized and to be someone. But over time, I saw that the reality was different.

I was never someone. I was always the idea of ​​someone useful. But now I see clearly that I am in this dark place alone.

When I have a trip down the memory lane, I remember so many moments in my life that made me happy and made me sad. And I can remember the year when I finally realized that I had no other reason to live than to get out of this prison. This place in which I feel dead.

And, as this is possibly the last thing that you will get from me, I will clarify some things:

You were always right about me. As much as I denied it, I believe that you always knew from the moment you discovered that I didn't want to live anymore. I refused and lied, saying things like, "I'm not hungry. That's why I'm not going to eat" or "I'm not in pain. I don't need a doctor." But the truth was different: I wanted to die; I wanted to feel pain and anguish. I wanted to suffer.

Do you have any sense of a person's physical and mental torture at having to be forced to do all sorts of things they hate just because they are bullied? 

The tiredness of living hiding my dreams and desires because no one ever asked me anything about my life and assumed that I was "PERFECT" in three seconds? What is it like to cry in the middle of your birthday for feeling like you do not deserve it? What is it like to go to a party full of people, and just hate everyone and not have a friend there? How does it feel to be ridiculed for your defects and problems, and then be used? What is it like to lie down in bed every day with tears in your eyes and a more giant hole in your chest?

I went through it all. 

I spent my whole life listening to my colleagues telling me things like, "Your life is perfect!" "You are amazing!" "You are perfect." These lies were told to me several times, and, of course, for a brief moment, I felt important and grateful, but then, I felt pain. Much pain. 

These "friends" of mine only said things like that and hung out with me because of my grades. I was a muggle, and that pain consumed me. But it was also the pain that showed me the reality; that showed me that I would never be who people expected me to be.

But, for some reason, I kept trying. I kept trying to be that amazing person that others said I was. But I just felt more pressure. 

I felt pressured by not being able to reach the expectations of others, and I deeply regret that. I regret having become the image of the person you imagined me to be.

And that was my life. Literally, my whole life, I was left out and was only called when someone was interested in something that I knew how to do or that I needed to do.

I had no friends, and my own family did not see me or pretended not to see me.

I am very grateful and lucky to have been able to do many things in my life, but that is no longer worth the effort. 

I'm just good at hiding that massive hole in my stomach. I created distractions and hobbies that started to define me as a person; as a human being.

That's why I became me—the "perfect girl" who never has a problem.

Nobody really knew me, and nobody ever showed interest in me so, I continued behind this mask and, I believe that nobody will get to know the real me.

Sorry,

M. A.