im thinking about ending it all

[2BeamsofLight]

I don't really know where my story starts.

I guess it starts when I was little and I still thought everything was going to be okay. I used to think bad things only happened to people in movies. My parents used to laugh alot and my mum would make dinner almost every night. We didn't have much money, but I never really noticed. I had a home, I had my parents, and thats all I thought I needed.

Then my dad lost his job.

At first he acted like it was nothing. He told me he would find another one. He smiled when he said it too, but it wasn't a real smile. I could see that even when I was only eight.

He didn't find another job.

Soon we started having problems paying for things. Sometimes the electricity would go off and my mum would light candles around the house. I actually thought it was fun at first. I thought we were pretending to camp inside.

I didn't know she was crying in the kitchen after I went to bed.

My parents started fighting more. I would hear them shouting downstairs and I would hide under my blanket with my hands over my ears. Sometimes I could still hear them anyway.

One night I heard my dad say he was leaving.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

A few weeks later, he actually left.

He told me he would call me all the time. He told me none of it was my fault. He hugged me before he got into his car and I remember standing outside watching the car get smaller.

At first he called.

Then he called less.

Then one day he just stopped.

I kept checking my phone even though I knew it wasn't going to ring.

I think that was the first time I realized people can promise you things and still leave anyway.

A couple years later, my mum got really sick.

She was always tired. Sometimes she couldn't even get out of bed. I didn't really understand how serious it was. Nobody explained it properly to me. They just kept saying she needed rest and that things would be okay.

I started doing more around the house.

I made food.

I washed clothes.

I cleaned.

I went to school and pretended I was normal.

Whenever someone asked me if I was okay, I always said yes.

I got really good at saying yes.

One day I came home from school and found my mum on the floor.

I remember screaming.

I remember the phone slipping out of my hand.

I remember waiting for the ambulance and thinking that if I just stayed there long enough, she would open her eyes.

She didn't.

After she died, everyone kept telling me she was in a better place.

I hated hearing that.

What did they even mean?

A better place didn't mean anything to me. I didn't want her in some better place. I wanted her in the kitchen. I wanted her telling me to eat properly. I wanted to hear her complaining about me leaving my shoes in the hallway.

I wanted my mum.

Instead I got a funeral.

After that I moved in with family.

They weren't horrible people, but I never felt like I belonged there. I felt like I was sleeping in someone else's house, eating someone else's food, taking up space.

I started getting worse at school.

I stopped talking to people.

I stopped playing football.

I stopped doing almost everything I used to enjoy.

There was one teacher who noticed.

He let me stay after school sometimes. I didn't always talk. Most days I would just sit there while he worked. It was weird but it helped. For the first time in ages, I felt like someone actually noticed I was there.

He told me I still had a future.

I wanted to believe him.

I started writing things down in a notebook. Stupid things mostly. How I felt, things I remembered about my mum, stuff I was scared of.

It helped.

For a little while, I actually felt like I was getting better.

Then he died.

Just like that.

One morning everyone was whispering in the hallway and I found out he had had a heart attack.

I don't think I cried.

I just felt empty.

It was almost like every time something helped me, life came back and took it away.

When I got older, I started working because I needed money.

I worked late shifts washing dishes in a restaurant. My hands were always cracked and sore. My boss hated me. He yelled at me over everything, even when things weren't my fault.

Sometimes I'd work extra hours and he wouldn't pay me for them.

I needed the money.

So I stayed.

I started saving up little by little because I wanted a guitar. My mum had always said she'd love to hear me play one day.

Eventually I had enough for an old second hand one.

I took it home and sat on the floor with it.

I barely knew what I was doing.

The first sound I made was terrible.

I laughed anyway.

It was probably the first time I'd smiled properly in ages.

A few days later, the guitar was gone.

Someone in the house had sold it because we needed money for bills.

I didn't even argue.

I went to my room, shut the door, and cried until I fell asleep.

I think that was the moment I stopped expecting good things to stay.

By the time I was eighteen, I barely recognized myself.

I moved out.

I worked two jobs.

I slept when I could.

And somewhere around that time, I started having thoughts I was scared to admit out loud.

I started thinking maybe everyone would be better off without me.

Sometimes I'd lie in bed and think about how tired I was of waking up. I didn't want to have to keep pretending that I was okay. I didn't want to explain why I was sad. I just wanted everything in my head to go quiet for once.

The thoughts came and went.

Some nights they were just there in the background.

Other nights they felt so loud I couldn't think about anything else.

I never told anyone.

I'd still go to work.

I'd still answer people with "I'm fine."

I'd still laugh at stupid jokes.

Nobody knew that sometimes, on the walk home, I would wonder what the point of me being there even was.

That scared me.

Mostly because part of me didn't even care anymore.

I think thats what hopelessness feels like. Not always crying. Sometimes it's just not caring what happens next.

Some nights I'd sit by the window at three in the morning and watch people driving past. I'd wonder where they were going. Maybe they were going home to someone. Maybe someone was waiting for them.

Nobody was waiting for me.

But every once in a while, something tiny would keep me there.

A song.

A memory.

The sound of rain.

The thought of my mum.

Sometimes it was nothing more than knowing I'd regret leaving my life unfinished.

I still dreamed about my mum sometimes.

Those dreams were the worst.

In the dream, everything would be normal. She'd be in the kitchen. I'd hear her voice. I'd sit at the table and talk to her.

Then I'd wake up.

For a few seconds, I wouldn't remember.

Then I would.

And I'd just stare at the ceiling thinking, please, just let me have five more minutes.

I still have the notebook from when I was younger.

I opened it a few years ago and found something I'd written.

"Maybe tomorrow will be better."

I actually laughed when I read it.

I don't know why.

Maybe because I wanted to believe it so badly back then.

I picked up a pen and wrote underneath it.

"I hope so."

I still have that page.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe because some part of me is still that little kid waiting for something good to happen.

I lost my dad.

I lost my mum.

I lost the people who tried to help me.

I lost things I cared about.

I lost time.

I lost a lot of myself too.

And there were days when I honestly didn't want to be here anymore.

But somehow I'm still here.

I don't think thats a happy ending.

I don't think everything gets better just because you keep going.

Sometimes you just keep going because you don't know what else to do.

And maybe thats enough.

Maybe waking up tomorrow is enough.

At least for me, right now, it has to be.

i saw a guy make a thread saying hes gonna end it and got a lot of attention so i made this i hope i get views. JFL at you boneless foids that clicked fucking easy thanks for the view tho

 

[werewollf]

Welcome to no reply brother

 

[2BeamsofLight]

I don't really know where my story starts.

I guess it starts when I was little and I still thought everything was going to be okay. I used to think bad things only happened to people in movies. My parents used to laugh alot and my mum would make dinner almost every night. We didn't have much money, but I never really noticed. I had a home, I had my parents, and thats all I thought I needed.

Then my dad lost his job.

At first he acted like it was nothing. He told me he would find another one. He smiled when he said it too, but it wasn't a real smile. I could see that even when I was only eight.

He didn't find another job.

Soon we started having problems paying for things. Sometimes the electricity would go off and my mum would light candles around the house. I actually thought it was fun at first. I thought we were pretending to camp inside.

I didn't know she was crying in the kitchen after I went to bed.

My parents started fighting more. I would hear them shouting downstairs and I would hide under my blanket with my hands over my ears. Sometimes I could still hear them anyway.

One night I heard my dad say he was leaving.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

A few weeks later, he actually left.

He told me he would call me all the time. He told me none of it was my fault. He hugged me before he got into his car and I remember standing outside watching the car get smaller.

At first he called.

Then he called less.

Then one day he just stopped.

I kept checking my phone even though I knew it wasn't going to ring.

I think that was the first time I realized people can promise you things and still leave anyway.

A couple years later, my mum got really sick.

She was always tired. Sometimes she couldn't even get out of bed. I didn't really understand how serious it was. Nobody explained it properly to me. They just kept saying she needed rest and that things would be okay.

I started doing more around the house.

I made food.

I washed clothes.

I cleaned.

I went to school and pretended I was normal.

Whenever someone asked me if I was okay, I always said yes.

I got really good at saying yes.

One day I came home from school and found my mum on the floor.

I remember screaming.

I remember the phone slipping out of my hand.

I remember waiting for the ambulance and thinking that if I just stayed there long enough, she would open her eyes.

She didn't.

After she died, everyone kept telling me she was in a better place.

I hated hearing that.

What did they even mean?

A better place didn't mean anything to me. I didn't want her in some better place. I wanted her in the kitchen. I wanted her telling me to eat properly. I wanted to hear her complaining about me leaving my shoes in the hallway.

I wanted my mum.

Instead I got a funeral.

After that I moved in with family.

They weren't horrible people, but I never felt like I belonged there. I felt like I was sleeping in someone else's house, eating someone else's food, taking up space.

I started getting worse at school.

I stopped talking to people.

I stopped playing football.

I stopped doing almost everything I used to enjoy.

There was one teacher who noticed.

He let me stay after school sometimes. I didn't always talk. Most days I would just sit there while he worked. It was weird but it helped. For the first time in ages, I felt like someone actually noticed I was there.

He told me I still had a future.

I wanted to believe him.

I started writing things down in a notebook. Stupid things mostly. How I felt, things I remembered about my mum, stuff I was scared of.

It helped.

For a little while, I actually felt like I was getting better.

Then he died.

Just like that.

One morning everyone was whispering in the hallway and I found out he had had a heart attack.

I don't think I cried.

I just felt empty.

It was almost like every time something helped me, life came back and took it away.

When I got older, I started working because I needed money.

I worked late shifts washing dishes in a restaurant. My hands were always cracked and sore. My boss hated me. He yelled at me over everything, even when things weren't my fault.

Sometimes I'd work extra hours and he wouldn't pay me for them.

I needed the money.

So I stayed.

I started saving up little by little because I wanted a guitar. My mum had always said she'd love to hear me play one day.

Eventually I had enough for an old second hand one.

I took it home and sat on the floor with it.

I barely knew what I was doing.

The first sound I made was terrible.

I laughed anyway.

It was probably the first time I'd smiled properly in ages.

A few days later, the guitar was gone.

Someone in the house had sold it because we needed money for bills.

I didn't even argue.

I went to my room, shut the door, and cried until I fell asleep.

I think that was the moment I stopped expecting good things to stay.

By the time I was eighteen, I barely recognized myself.

I moved out.

I worked two jobs.

I slept when I could.

And somewhere around that time, I started having thoughts I was scared to admit out loud.

I started thinking maybe everyone would be better off without me.

Sometimes I'd lie in bed and think about how tired I was of waking up. I didn't want to have to keep pretending that I was okay. I didn't want to explain why I was sad. I just wanted everything in my head to go quiet for once.

The thoughts came and went.

Some nights they were just there in the background.

Other nights they felt so loud I couldn't think about anything else.

I never told anyone.

I'd still go to work.

I'd still answer people with "I'm fine."

I'd still laugh at stupid jokes.

Nobody knew that sometimes, on the walk home, I would wonder what the point of me being there even was.

That scared me.

Mostly because part of me didn't even care anymore.

I think thats what hopelessness feels like. Not always crying. Sometimes it's just not caring what happens next.

Some nights I'd sit by the window at three in the morning and watch people driving past. I'd wonder where they were going. Maybe they were going home to someone. Maybe someone was waiting for them.

Nobody was waiting for me.

But every once in a while, something tiny would keep me there.

A song.

A memory.

The sound of rain.

The thought of my mum.

Sometimes it was nothing more than knowing I'd regret leaving my life unfinished.

I still dreamed about my mum sometimes.

Those dreams were the worst.

In the dream, everything would be normal. She'd be in the kitchen. I'd hear her voice. I'd sit at the table and talk to her.

Then I'd wake up.

For a few seconds, I wouldn't remember.

Then I would.

And I'd just stare at the ceiling thinking, please, just let me have five more minutes.

I still have the notebook from when I was younger.

I opened it a few years ago and found something I'd written.

"Maybe tomorrow will be better."

I actually laughed when I read it.

I don't know why.

Maybe because I wanted to believe it so badly back then.

I picked up a pen and wrote underneath it.

"I hope so."

I still have that page.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe because some part of me is still that little kid waiting for something good to happen.

I lost my dad.

I lost my mum.

I lost the people who tried to help me.

I lost things I cared about.

I lost time.

I lost a lot of myself too.

And there were days when I honestly didn't want to be here anymore.

But somehow I'm still here.

I don't think thats a happy ending.

I don't think everything gets better just because you keep going.

Sometimes you just keep going because you don't know what else to do.

And maybe thats enough.

Maybe waking up tomorrow is enough.

At least for me, right now, it has to be.

i saw a guy make a thread saying hes gonna end it and got a lot of attention so i made this i hope i get views. JFL at you boneless foids that clicked fucking easy thanks for the view tho

View attachment 5671015
Welcome to no reply brother

Broootaaaaaaal dancing abs forum they said