That's how.

Meh.
I wish depression were as easy as me feeling sorry for myself.
Ugh. My family. They're such assholes.

I don't even know what to write. I just need to. Because I can't cry; not in front of her. And you're not here to talk to. I hate myself. I hate how she makes me feel. I hate how I make me feel. That bridge up the street wakes me up in the middle of the night screaming my name. That knife in the kitchen does the same.

I put a steak knife in with the butter knives. Everytime I go to grab one I close my eyes and hope it cuts me. Feeling around in the dark.

Last night I was making dinner and bacon grease popped onto my arm and into my eye. It made me feel alive. It made me want more pain. It doesn't hurt as bad as what's inside. The stuff I can't get out. The stuff I want to go away.

You know... when I left... they told me I'd go to hell. They said I'd fall slowly but there'd be no way back for me. And now... they say I should stop feeling sorry for myself and kick my depression.

How do you let go of a six year marriage that ended in your spouse choosing someone else? Six years of abuse and neglect. How?

How do you let go of a father who was never there emotionally?

How do you let go of years of molestations?

How?

How?

Death. That's how.