september 26, 2016
angelina joy s.

You live and you learn, a lesson taught to me at a very young age. "It's okay to ask for help," they say. When we were young, our teachers would tell us that our compassionate strongly take ahold of us when we find it, but not all of the time our compassion is healthy. What happens then? My compassion is a strong concern towards the ones around me, the people who care about me. They act as if I'm some sort of charity case, or as if they help me, that'll mentally justify them for counting it as their "community service hours" possibly. I am a life. I am a living, breathing, functioning life form. I matter as much as anybody else on this Earth. So why do they want me to not quit? That's the only thing that'll make me happy. Let me be, let me finish, let me rot. Let me be me, no matter how much harm it causes me. My only purpose here on this Earth anyways is to be criticized, and be told that everybody else is better than me. I'm so tired of it, of this, of everyone. I'm just so tired of being here. My memories and my past constantly tend to haunt me, pushing itself onto me. The pressure in my lungs, the concaving in my throat, and the tears that stream out my eyes, down my face. Endless pain and stress. I'm constantly suffering. If I don't end my life myself, they will end up doing it for me.

— angel.j.s