Dunno where to put this, but I'm comfortable here, so I'll put it here, if that's okay; you can move it if it doesn't belong here. NOTE: Any suicidal thoughts mentioned here are just me venting!!! Not something I plan on doing--please don't take offense to it.

This is what I wanna say to my surrogate mothers (dunno if I'll have the guts):

With every day that passes, every day that I'm still stuck in this house, I lose a little of my already-scarce sanity; delve a little deeper into an all-consuming depression; and get one step closer to saying "f*** it" and jumping off the highest building I can find. Because at this point, that will be the only way I'll ever feel free; the only way I'll ever fly, ever know lasting peace. Man isn't meant to tolerate this much pain; after a certain point, it's just cruel to ask someone to continue living through it. I passed that point about three years ago.

My therapist says I should tell someone about my past. But were I to tell you every dirty little secret, you'd see how...tainted I am. Were you to know how much I've been through, you'd surely run the other way and never look back. And I wouldn't fault you; how could I, when every other person I've loved or trusted has done exactly that? The question is this: Do I risk trusting you, on the off chance that you'll have a positive reaction, or do I shut you out the way I've learned to do with everyone else?