I've subtly tried to show people just how bad-off I was for years. At some level, I believed that if they saw it and possibly understood it, maybe they could help save me. False hopes, I know. Well, due to recent events, several people know about my daily struggles with suicidality (even then, only to a certain degree). You'd think that'd make me feel a bit relieved because then maybe I don't have to hide so much and I can finally deal with my thoughts openly.

No. It's not like that.

All of these people who I thought would maybe believe in some form of my recovery (though I quit believing in it myself a long time ago). It's not like that. It's the opposite. Everyone who knows about what's happened, every single one of them, seems to be preparing for my funeral. Not a single person believes that I can beat this. I don't even think my therapist does, anymore. They all believe my willpower will falter and I will die. It might as well be like when I was diagnosed with cancer at eighteen. Even then, I still had a few that knew I was going to beat it. But this... no one is convinced I will. They are just the same as me, without faith and waiting for the end.

Sure, at least they'll be prepared if I decide to give in. Hey, that's a good thing, right? Doesn't matter. It still ****ing hurts. I always knew I was a lost cause and now they do too. And this validates that belief. What's the point in trying, anymore? They don't see me, they only see my illness. I'm not a person anymore, just like when I had ****ing cancer. I'm not human, I'm the embodiment of sickness.

"When I look into yours eyes there's nothing left to see, nothing but my own mistakes staring back at me...

No matter what you see, you're still so blind to me."

-Linkin Park, 'P5hng Me A*wy'.