My whole life, I’ve battled depression looking for the best end after the loss of a best friend. Everybody would recommend a session, telling me to count my blessings this is only a section, of my life.
At 14 I lost my first encounter, with a bottle on the counter I took a bunch of downers and laid down in the tub because I wasn’t “cool” enough and my life was so rough, I was only a kid.
At 15 I had my first beer, the first time I was able to drown out my fear that end was near and I thought I was thinking clear but I was just like a deer, in the headlights.
At 16, I found my way to the end of a roach, the first time I smoked, the first time I realized I could easily cope with the dope and finally have hope that I was shortening the rope, around my neck.
The next few years all ran together, forgetting all the storms I weathered, the people who didn’t get better thinking I was happy I met her, a bird with beautiful feathers her life meaning more than mine.
Everything during this time ruined by me wanting to die, only outnumbered by the number of highs, telling my friends nothing but lies, like I’m fine. Always knowing its almost my time.
I often tried to reason, why I’m fighting these demons my mind committing this treason ending the evenings barely breathing, emotions changing like seasons having to suppress my feelings.
I’ve spent many days feeling nervous, looking for my purpose, through help and service but at the end of the day, 12 years later still feeling worthless.
I’ve been led to wonder what I’m missing. 26 years of no one listening, after a week of the same just saying I’m ******* so I’d run to the kitchen thinking I’m fixing my problems but that only made them worse.
So I would get my thrills with any girl who’d let me cop a feel knowing nothings reals trying to reach a deal so I could finally feel but we were always “better as friends.”
Then there were the girls not ready to date, unless it was a boy they’d hate, or the ones only looking to mate as way to escape their last mistake, who was usually me.
The meaningless flings would always fly with me because I knew I’d never be the one to set her free and they’d always be ashamed for someone to see them with me, but that’s fine.
I know no one wants something broken, a heart that won’t open, a brain constantly downward sloping, someone always coping because they’re just tired of hoping for what they stopped believing.
Next thing I knew I started cutting myself to fulfill the need that I perceived could free my mind by planting the seed that I was a superior breed and couldn’t die.
Really, I would drink then wash my blood down the sink because I wouldn’t have the time to think about my missing link that led me to the brink, of life.
No matter how you cope, in a bar, working on cars, making scars, wishing on a shooting star you’ll never get far, enough away.
So what do you do when you think you’re at the end, without a friend, a stranger in your skin, tired of always trying to begin again, I grab a pen. The paper ask me where I’ve been because I forget every now and then that I can win and that’s when the whole cycle starts again. Ready to welcome you, my old friend.
