allthetimesivedied

It really feels like it’s starting to get out of hand, and the leftist/activist community here or whatever doesn’t seem to really give a fuck,

I was just going to print out fliers and put them up, then see about purchasing a megaphone. I’m thinking of August 8th for the date, still mulling over where the location will be.

…because of the thing with the money. And then losing my wallet, and then one of my plushie friends. It’s only going to get worse. I really hope I die before it does.

And in a bit over a week from now it’ll be the 1 year anniversary of the last time I saw my friend, the one who won’t talk to me anymore. One down, the rest of my lifetime to go. I know I’ll never see them again and while I think I’m over the cringey weird shit, I still think about them pretty much every day and it hurts so fucking much.

You know I’ll never get a car or a minivan or whatever. Definitely not before this winter—it gets harder to cope with every fucking year.

Fuck.

His name was Blueberry, he was a blue whale who looked like he was made by the same company as Creamsicle. I only had him a week at the most but I loved him. I’d show you a picture of him but seeing it would be painful.

Whereas Creamsicle is a silly lovable little dumbass, Blueberry’s schtick was that he was a mature adult whale who dispenses difficult to listen to life advice.

Creamsicle will be staying at my friend’s house longer than expected because I never want to lose him, and I know it would only be a matter of time before that would happen if he were hanging out with me. He’s happier there—he just doesn’t realize it, because he’s just a baby whale.

I hope I just left him in my friend’s car, and if not, I hope he’s found by someone who will love him…

Note: I do not actually believe that uhh…you know.

It might be a dumb question but I don’t want to risk fucking him up somehow—what I’m most worried about is his stuffing getting mildew-y or otherwise borked. I’m pretty sure, almost certain actually, he’s polyester inside. Do I just dunk him in some soapy water, scrub him, and leave him in the sun for a while? Can I throw him in the washer next time I do laundry? He’d fucking love that.

Whenever I’m really sad it feels like either heartburn, or this “tightness” or something just below my sternum.

Also Creamsicle says he’s sorry for making a dumb post. Here’s a picture of him with a noodle on his head.

Btw I take him to the vet when he eats cat food because that’s Gregory’s cat food. I tell the vet he got into some chocolate so they’ll give him an emetic and maybe he’ll decide the cat food isn’t worth it and there won’t be a next time, but he’s an idi—GOD DAMNIT CREAMSICLE COME BACK HERE.

”Yay!”

I can’t take this shit. And everyone who tries to tell me my life is worth living is only prolonging and worsening this pain I live in. I wish it would fucking stop.

I wish someone could talk to them and tell them I’m sorry. I wish I could so much as hear their voice one last time.

I hate this life.

Everything reminds me of them—everything. It sounds ridiculous but just about every fucking thing reminds me of them. My friends remind me of them. I’m so tired of being in pain.

I don’t know where to fucking go or what I’m going to fucking do. I want to get a car or something first and my driver’s license but that will take forever, if it will even happen. And then I have to fucking start over from scratch somewhere else.

This is so fucking cruel. My life is completely fucked. It’s either this fucking bleak option, keep waking up in pain and get addicted to fucking heroin, or work up the courage to kill myself.

“Moving on” isn’t an option because anyone who tells me that is a stupid piece of shit who has no idea what it’s like to be me.

I hate this I hate this I FUCKING HATE THIS. I’m going to die all because I was emotionally fucked from an early age. I was damned from the fucking moment I was born. I can’t live with this fucking shame and this fucking bullshit.

Unless my depression gets the best of me and I just stay home.

While I want to talk about it sometimes, it’s probably the best course of action to not talk about it, at all.

It makes me sad sometimes.

You may have seen my posts about this person I used to be friends with—I wish I could tell you their name, because it’s such a cool name, but alas, they will always be, to you, the person who won’t talk to me anymore, my ex-friend, or them.

I think I’ve moved on, but not in the way everyone expects me to. Because I fucking can’t, and don’t want to—I am not just lovesick when I tell you how special they are as a person, and it’s not just a symptom of BPD when I tell you how special they are to me. I will always remember them, and nobody will ever replace them, and I’ll always wonder where they are and how they’re doing. If I believed in God I’d pray for them every night.

And I’m not saying this because I’m obsessed. I was obsessed, and I’m ashamed of that, but I don’t think I am anymore, but everyone wants it to be that because it isn’t fucking normal to feel this way. It isn’t fucking normal to have the kind of life I’ve had, either. Or the kind of life they’ve had.

When a friend of mine reached out to them and they said I needed to move on, I had an absolute meltdown. I said so many cruel and awful things—not to them, thank fuck—and for a short while all the love I felt for them combusted into hate. And then I felt ashamed because I remembered who they are. They aren’t a mean person. I really can’t see them hating me, or anyone.

I damaged their trust in me and probably broke their heart. They gave me a lot of chances and a lot of patience and I fucked everything up.

So I’ve moved on in the sense that I’ve sort of made peace with their being gone forever. It makes me sad but I’m not destroying myself over them, and I’m not going to beg for their forgiveness and for them to come back. I’d rather they never hear my name or be reminded of me ever again, if I make them as uncomfortable as it seems like I do. I’ll always have daydreams of bumping into them again, but I only want that to happen if they aren’t going to be freaked out by seeing me.

I’m going to write them one last goodbye letter, which my friend will relay to them if they want to read it. If they don’t, that’s fine, and I understand why.