They can't possibly understand how I express myself through the darkened words on a page. How they keep me from the edge where I swallow alcohol and pills trying to drown my body into a hypnotic state of the death march. I have been there before willingly begging for relief from my pain, my soul, my life.
Rather I have been held longer than my expected stay here on this mortal coil we call Earth. I have passed my expiration date and have no idea why. Are my words helping anyone? Have I become the spokesperson for generations of sufferers? I don't think so.
Maybe when I'm gone they will read these words and finally understand that when I wrote I was trying hard to not harm myself. To avoid branding, to avoid suicide.
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