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Don’t know how to make my parents understand; when I have bad days, they just sort of don’t know what to do with me, and then after when I look like I’m better they try to help me with all sorts of advice.
“Just go to bed earlier, like your brother,” they tell me.
“Think of it as something you have to do- like when you were in high school, you went every day because you had to!”
Yes, I went everyday because I had to.
You may also recall how I was on antidepressants for the entire five year stint, and anti-anxiety medication.
And though I never actively tried to hurt myself, my thoughts throughout the days were constantly of not existing anymore.
But I don’t know how to tell you those things without hurting your little girl. She is long dead and buried in my heart, and I try to do things together in memoriam of her, but she is no longer me.
I don’t want to break my mother’s heart with such cruel words as “yes, but I wanted to die.”