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A Story by LadyFluff

I’m not suicidal.

That’s what you might think, but I’d never kill myself. I’m too much of a coward to kill myself.

Hah, who am I kidding?

You’d never think I’m suicidal.

I’m the happy girl, the one who always smiles. Of course I could never want to die.

Right?

But you don’t see me at night when the demons come out to play and I’m stabbed with harsh truths that I know are lies but they’re still true, so true.

You don’t see me at night when the monsters break out of their cages and I become a doll thrown around by jagged claws and torn apart by a thousand ravenous mouths.

You don’t see me at night when the smile is ripped away to reveal a sad little girl who can’t sleep without hugging something because then she can pretend she’s loved by someone, but she still cries because she’s still the one who’s loving, she’s always the one who’s loving, and she just wants someone to protect her, someone to hold her, someone to love her, someone to care. She wants someone to love her for once.

I know you care… but there’s always a voice that whispers that it’s a lie, that you don’t, and I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.

Am I okay? Am I not? Am I happy? Am I not? Am I alive? Am I dead? Neither?

Do you care? Do you not? Are you telling the truth? Are you lying?

Am I good enough for you?

My friend, my best friend, the best person I know, the one who makes me smile and laugh, real smiles and real laughs. The one person in this world that can make me happy, truly happy, if only for a moment. Am I good enough for you?

I’m fat, I’m ugly, I’m stupid, I’m fake, I’m worthless, I’m a failure. Next to you, perfect you, beautiful, smart, real, perfect you, what am I? What am I compared to you?

You say I’m not fat, I’m not ugly, I’m not stupid, fake, worthless, a failure, but I can hear it in your voice, I can see it in your eyes. The hesitation, the lack of conviction, the kindness in your eyes. I know. It’s true, that’s the only true thing I know. I’m nothing compared to you, I’m not good enough for you.

Don’t lie to me, don’t pity me. Don’t spare my feelings anymore. I know the truth, I know the truth you’ve tried to hold from me for so long.

I’m a horrible friend, a horrible person, however much you deny it.

I’m jealous of you. I’m jealous of my best friend. I’m such a horrible friend, you deserve so much better. But how can I not be jealous of you? You’re perfect. Smart, pretty, adored by everyone. I’m not kidding, everyone I’ve ever met who knows you has only said positive things. You can make friends with strangers in five minutes, if not less. And why wouldn’t they love you? You’re charismatic, easygoing, kind, funny, and just likeable. There’s just something about you that makes you likeable. You’re not super social or extroverted, but you’re still popular. And then there’s me, the awkward, cruel, unlikeable idiot. I can’t socialize, I can’t make friends. I’m hated by most of the grade. People wonder how we’re friends because we’re so different. Even our teacher knows that I’m the evil one and you’re the good one.

And the one thing I find some small measure of security in, my intelligence, even that’s overshadowed by yours. You’re the one who gets all the answers right, who’s in the higher math class, who’s just smarter.

You said that if it weren’t for me you would be a loner. That’s a lie, and we both know it. You’d be popular whether or not I made friends with you. I forced you to be my friend. Don’t deny it. You said yourself that I terrified you half to death when I first met you.

I hurt you, I annoy you, I’m a horrible friend.

You said that I’m part of the reason why you have back pain. Because of the back hugs I give you. Because of all the times I’ve jumped on you or lay on you. You didn’t want me to sit next to you, but you let another person sit there without telling them to go. You and your friends, your best friends, talk on your own, and I’m just there, the outsider looking in on the perfect best friends, my best friend. I’m the afterthought, the one who isn’t wanted. You say “Oh, come here, sit with us,” but it’s only after I come up. You don’t seek me out the way you seek out your other friends, and I don’t blame you.

I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for being an annoyance. I’m sorry for dragging you down. I’m sorry for forcing you to hang out with me.

You don’t need me, I know that. But I need you, because you’re my best friend, even if I’m not yours.

I hate you so much sometimes. Sometimes I don’t even want to look at you because you’re everything I want to be, but I can never be you. I can never be as perfect as you, no matter how hard I try. I can never be as pretty as you, as smart as you, as lovable as you. I can only be me, and I hate me. Your face is just another reminder that I’m a failure, I’m a disappointment, I’m worthless. And it hurts, it hurts so much to look at you and remember all the things I am and all that I will never be.

And the mirror, how I hate the mirror. Sometimes I’ll look at myself in the mirror and find every flaw. My face, the fat on my stomach, the way my thighs jiggle. The scars criss-crossing my thighs, faded but still there and holding memories that will never fade. And sometimes I just want to punch the mirror, punch it and watch as the cracks creep across the glass and I’m distorted into the ugly broken mess I am.

I’m broken. I’m broken but I can’t be fixed. I’m destined to die broken because who can fix me? Who would want to? I’m not in a state of being broken, I just am broken.

I feel like I’m lost in a maze of mirrors, searching for an exit but never being able to find one, trapped by myself. Like I’m stuck on a carousel that I can’t get off of as it goes round and round and round. Like I’m trapped in a haunted house, surrounded by monsters and ghosts and demons. Like I’m digging myself into a hole I can’t get out of, and I can’t even scream as the hole caves in and I’m buried alive. I’m stuck in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

Can anyone save me? Can you save me? Sometimes I think I can see you in my maze, but when I chase you I get even more lost. You sit in front of me on the carousel, laughing, and you reach out your hand but I can’t lift my hand to reach for yours. I hear you calling for me in the house, but I can’t muster the courage to get up and make my way through the terrors to find you. I feel your footsteps above me, but I don’t have the breath or the energy to scream for you. I can feel you shaking me, trying to wake me up, but I can’t open my eyes.

At night, the demons take on different voices. The kids laughing at me, laughing at me because I was fat, I still am. My mother complaining that I’m too chubby, my dad saying it’s alright to be chubby, my brother laughing at my chubby cheeks. The other kids’ expectations of me, the smart girl, expectations that I fail to meet, over and over. My mother’s lamentations of my stupidity, saying my brother was smarter, is smarter, be like your brother. The kid who told me I’m fake, I’m all a lie, a fraud, a trick.

And then worst of all, your voice. Sneering at me, mocking me. Saying that no one would love me, how could anyone care for a thing like me, why would you ever love a monster like me? Saying it was all a lie, you just felt bad, you were never my friend. That you hate me and you’re going to abandon me because I”m not worth the effort and I”m replaceable and you don’t need me.

I’m not alone, but I feel so alone. Even when I’m surrounded by people I feel alone. I just feel empty. Like there’s something that I want, something I need, that I can never get. Something that I’m always reaching out for, but can never quite grasp. Maybe I can grasp it for a moment, but it always slips between my fingers. It’s like trying to hold water. Futile and hopeless.

What am I reaching for? Happiness? Love? Affection? Emotions? Even I don’t know.

You think I’m not sensitive, you think I don’t feel anything. In all the years you’ve known me you’ve never seen me cry. But the truth is, I feel too much. When you do better than me, when I see you laughing with your other friends, when you complain that I’m being annoying or I’m causing you pain, I want to cry, but I have to smile, have to pretend that I’m fine, it doesn’t bother me. I pretend that I”m okay. I shouldn’t get jealous of you, I should be happy for you, but I can’t, I’m sorry. It makes me a horrible friend and person, but it still hurts because I’m not first, I’m still not first. And if I’m not first, I’m a failure.

Why would anyone love a failure? Why would anyone love me?

I know I say I don’t want a romantic relationship, don’t want to get married ever. You think it’s just me being stubborn and weird. But the truth is, I do want one. I don’t need to date, I don’t need to get married, I just want love. Platonic, romantic, whatever.

I want someone to hold me through the storms. I want someone to hug me through the nightmares that I can’t escape when I open my eyes. I want someone to shower me with compliments and tell me I’m worth something. I want someone to wipe my tears away, make me laugh, make me happy. I want someone who’ll care for me, protect me, love me. I want someone who’ll promise to never let me go, even though I’m temperamental and grumpy and cruel and obsessive and annoying. I want someone who’ll promise to stay with me, even when all I want is to be alone. I want someone who’ll promise to always love me, no matter what.

I want someone to shower me with love. I want someone to say they’ll love me no matter what happens, no matter what I do. I want someone to make me feel adored and protected and loved. I want to feel loved.

But I know it’s a dream, so I tell myself to wake up because I’ll never get it, no matter how much I want it. I don’t live in a dream, I live in a nightmare that doesn’t go away when I open my eyes.

And I can never tell you these dreams because it goes against everything I’ve said, all the lies I’ve told. It goes against every lies that I built up over the years in a feeble attempt to be liked, the lies that backfired and made me hated by so many. The lies I’ve kept up for so long that I don’t know if I can show the truth anymore, I don’t even know what the truth is anymore. The lies that I don’t need anyone, that I’m strong, that I can do this on my own. But the truth is, I do need someone, I’m not strong, I can’t do this by myself. I can’t do this on my own, but I have to because who would want to do it with me? Who would want to stay with me, go through life with me, when people like you exist?

You always complain that I don’t share anything about myself, and I know I don’t, but believe me, I want to. There are days when I contemplate telling you about my scars, what I do to myself to relieve my pain. But I know I can’t, because then you really will leave me and I’ll be alone. I know you won’t, but I know you will. I don’t know anything anymore. I want to tell you things, but the words never come out. So I change the subject and we laugh and joke like always, but I never say what I want to say.

Those scars… have you really never noticed them? I don’t make that much of an effort to keep them covered. Do you really believe my lies? Am I really that good at lying?

Sometimes I wish you would notice that I’m lying, that I’m not okay, that I’m broken, but at the same time I pray you never do. Because you’d never treat me the same, and maybe if I keep lying, I’ll start believing the lies I tell.

We really don’t know much about each other, do we? We barely know each other.

I know what you like, what you don’t like, but I don’t know what keeps you up at night, what monsters lurk under your bed, what demons whisper in your ear. And you definitely don’t know me. I wish we could share these things, actually talk for once, but we never do. We talk about light things, carefully veering around all those sensitive topics, so we know nothing about each other. I wish we could, but I know that I’d have to tell you about myself, so I don’t push the topic. I don’t want you to stop being my friend.

I remember, a few years ago, there was this kid that I teased a lot. I hit him, “punished” him when I got annoyed with him. The way I do with most people. And one day I was sitting with another friend at lunch, and I don’t remember what I said or did, but he said something along the lines of “Stop trying to be cool. You’re only hanging out with her because you want to be cool, but you’re not, and you won’t ever be.” It was years ago, and we were both immature kids, and he’s my friend now, but it still haunts me.

Is that what people think of me? However popular she was, she was nowhere near as well-liked as you are. So what do people think of me? An attention seeker, a leech who wants to feed off of your popularity? I promise that’s not what I’m trying to do, I promise.

I’m sorry for being a bother. I’ll change, I won’t annoy you. I’ll leave you alone, I won’t hug you. I won’t hurt you anymore. I promise. Just don’t hate me, please. I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. Anyone else can hate me, just not you. Don’t leave me, don’t abandon me. I need you, please don’t ever leave me. I can’t live without you, I can barely hang on now, and that’s because of you. I beg you, please, never leave me. If you leave I’m scared I won’t be able to keep fighting anymore.

I don’t know why I feel so sad, so empty. I shouldn’t be sad, I know I shouldn’t. What right do I have to be sad? I have a family, I have friends, I’m well-off, I get good grades. But I’m still sad.

Everyone who’s suicidal or self-harms in stories is always such a good person. Kind and sweet and thoughtful and lovable. That’s how they get help. Because people like them and notice them shattering into a million little pieces. But not me, never me. I’m replaceable, always have been. Every close friend I’ve ever had has left me and replaced me. And you will too. I’m not anyone’s best friend, I’m just a friend. And I know that that should be enough but it’s not, it’s not. Everyone in the stories is special, has a best friend or friends. I don’t. I’m alone and forgotten and hated and replaceable.

I’m nothing. I look at you, talking and smiling and laughing with your other friends. You’re fine without me, you don’t need me. The voice in my head whispers that you wouldn’t care if I’m gone, wouldn’t notice. And why would you waste your time missing me? There’s nothing to miss.

You won’t find this. This is my suicide letter, but I won’t commit suicide.

Yeah, I’m not suicidal.

But if a car was coming towards me I wouldn’t get out of the way.

If you somehow find this after I die, accidentally or on purpose, don’t mourn for me, don’t bother missing me. I don’t think you will, you probably won’t even miss me. You’ll be happy with your other friends without me hanging around. Life your life happily, without me, like you’ve done so far.

I’m sorry I sound so bitter, I don’t mean to. I guess I am bitter but I’m trying not to be. I know I’m a horrible person and there’s another reason why. But anyway.

If you find this while I’m still alive, I’m sorry. I know I sound really self-absorbed and annoying but I wanted to get this all off my chest and you’re the only person I would ever want to tell. Except it’d burden you, and I don’t want that. I don’t want you to find this, so just forget you ever saw this. Or break off our friendship because you’ve finally had enough of me. It’s okay. I’ll hurt, I’ll cry, but you’ll be happier and that’s all that matters. As long as you’re happy I can die happy. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself. I’ll be sad no matter what, but I’ll be a little less sad.

Okey? I love you~ ❤