#formetocomplain

the older i get the more i feel like my dad doesn’t understand me. and maybe it’s some gender thing, maybe that’s why. i don’t see how he can’t understand how harmful of an impact it has on me when he treats me like my worries are ridiculous or like im just some hysterical little woman. i don’t think he understands how hard it is for me when doctors treat me like my worries are ridiculous. i don’t think he understands how scary it is when he yells at me with genuine anger and his voice drops a half octave and he sounds like a barking dog.

ive been trying to censor this all a little bit. in terms of my probable suicidal ideation or whatever it’s called. but maybe i shouldn’t bother, i don’t think anybody i know will ever read any of this (and know it’s me). it’s possible a random internet person will, but it’s okay if a random internet person thinks i might kill myself. i won’t kill myself. i just really think i should be dead.

i am so awful. i have done so many bad things. i have hurt so many people. i should die

im just on autopilot. even as i am typing this, it doesn’t feel real. i mean like, it does. i can feel my fingers hitting the screen. but

i am very sad

i could have sworn it was soft, but how could it have ever been?

i broke my hanging mirror today. smashed it with a tennis racket. broken glass everywhere in my closet now. whoops. i was panicked about how ugly i look. i regret it.