I wanted to write a different story.

Content warning: graphic imagery, reference to suicide

I wanted to write a different story. One of happiness and joy. One that said if you step out of the systems holding you down you will be free. You CAN free yourself from an oppressor. But that's not my story. At least not yet.

My story is one of pain and depression and anxiety. One where I cry more days than I laugh. I want to say that I am writing this out by a creek surrounded by birds chirping and leaves falling but I'm not. I'm in bed. Too cold and sad to go outside. Wishing this day would just go away. That I could just just go away. So the fear and pain would stop.

Yesterday I thought that I couldn't handle anymore of anything. But here I am today, without a choice in the matter, handling things. My brain tells me I do have a choice. That I could end it all. But is it really a choice if I know it would hurt the people I love the most in this world. The people that I feel deserve to feel the least pain. How could I do that to them?

So I am here. Trying to handle it all.

I told myself I would tell my story as it unfolds. As I am. And this is how I am. It's not how I want to be.

I stepped out of the systems holding me back but they still have their greedy little fingers wrapped around my neck.