When I told the doctor,
About how the voices in my head
Tell me to **** myself,
And how I have anxiety attacks over the simplest of things,
And how it seems that I’m constantly sad.
He said,
“Oh here. Take this.”
And so I did.
But it didn’t help.
So I stopped taking it.
The next doctor gave me a new medication.
And this one seemed to make everything worse.
So I stopped taking it too.
The next doctor told me to go to therapy,
Because that’s what people like me need.
So I did.
And she told me that I was making it all up.
That it was all in my head.
And that If I kept telling these lies that I would be put in the hospital like the rest of the crazies.
If doctors are supposed to help you,
Then why did they only seem to make me worse?
If doctors are supposed to fix the problems,
Then why did they only give me more problems to add to my list?
If doctors are supposed to understand,
Then why did they call me crazy?

This is it,
the end of things.
The end of hope,
and the end of dreams.

Nothing is worth it,
no need to hold on.
The message is simple,
I need to get gone.

This pen on the paper,
is meaningless now.
I wish i could explain,
but I do not know how.

Meaning is fleeting,
and doesn't matter at all.
Nothing is there,
just a very long fall.

I'm sorry for this,
for the confusion and pain.
I've got nothing left,
and that drives me insane.

So no long goodbyes,
this is selfish I know.
I love you all dearly,
but it's time I should go.