none of this means anything in the end

I've lied. I've lied so much to people that I can barely stand it anymore. I almost actually talked about things in therapy the other day, but we ended up talking about movies instead. I feel like I'm dying.

Last night I spent hours in bed, screaming at myself, crying my fucking eyes out, begging myself to make the pain stop. I wanted to be dead. I wanted to convince myself that if I died, then everything would be okay. That I wouldn't ever feel anything again, that I'd sleep forever. I wanted it so bad, and there's no one to tell. I don't want to talk about it to my therapist, and I can't talk about it to anyone else. If I told Tamora she'd tell me to tell my therapist. If I told Matty he'd laugh and say "No you don't."

So I've decided something: I quit. I'm not going to try anymore with people, they can do whatever the fuck that they want not have to worry about me being into their lives. Because I quit. They can go be happy.

School starts up next week, I'll be busy with that. I'll get a job and work as much as possible. I'll get a routine together and stick to it. Because I fucking quit.