Summer song hit me hard today. And it only hits hard when I'm going through some really bad shit otherwise it just tends to blend in with the rest of FUTCT.

I was looking out the plane window and just staring at all the mountains and he was singing in my ear, lower then he usually does and the bass just seemed to shine out and that hurt and the guitar riff and everything. And I'm fucking trying. I'm trying to be who everybody wants me to be. I'm trying to please my parents with good grades and I'm trying to please myself and pass and I'm trying to please that one person I look up to and quit whining but it hurt today. I found myself crying in the middle of a fair because I could already hear my stepmom's words saying that I can't see the people who have saved my life countless times because I fucked Up on work I thought was good enough but was passed off as trash.

I thought about all the metaphorical exercised we did in drama where our group and I made letters with our bodies and such but when the teacher looked it over and passed our W's off as M's. And I remembered what he had said afterward about how sometimes when you work on something really good, and you're relaly fucking proud of it, that sometimes it gets passed off as nothing. And he told us about how there are special people out there who will look at your work and see it as a fucking masterpiece and when he had said that, I had cried. I had cried right there in front of the class and I wasn't sure why. It just kind of hit. I didn't even know /why/ it hit. And I remembered how a couple weeks later it finally hit me. How some of the best things I make, how this stories that I'm so proud of, that I work on so fucking hard for are the ones that are skipped over. And how those stories that I barely work on, that I put almost no effort into, get the most reads of them all. And I think about how there are those few people who have read my good stories—the ones that are passed off as trash—over and over again. And I think about those people who have cried because of my words. And it fucking hit me then. And it hit me again now. And it fucking hurt.

And I thought about how Summer Song gets passed off as nothing because people don't understand. Or because people just think he's doing it for attention. And I thought about how Pete must have felt because of that. And I thought about how he felt the way I feel.

And I wondered if it was really fucking worth it to keep on going.

I fucking wondered.

I thought about how before I left for the airport how my stepdad told me about all those years I would have to study to go into psychology and how suicidal that made me felt. Because suicide is now a feeling for me. Because it's now my automatic answer for the future.

"What are you gonna be when you grow up?" They ask.

"A psychologist," I say.

/Dead/ I think.

"Everyone feels the way you feel at some point in their life," they say.

"Yeah," I say.

/I'm fucking weak/ I think.

Or sometimes I'll think, /nobody should feel this way/

Nobody should. This is a horrible feeling. The emotion of suicide.

Because honestly? I just want to feel alive again. I want to feel my stomach drop as I free fall from a roller coaster. I want to stick my head out the car window, speeding down the highway with rain drenching my hair and All The Small Things blasts through the car. I don't want to live if I can't enjoy life. I had this figured out, and then I didn't. I'm not gonna be young forever and I can't be locked up when the best years of my life are going to waste.

I can't. They say these are the best years of my life. But honestly? I've never wanted to kill myself more than I do now. I've never felt more alone than I do now. I want to hug my one and only friend and just stay there but I know I could never summon the courage to. And I know she would push me away and give me a funny look because she wouldn't fucking understand. She's complaining and playing it off like nothing. I'm dying and screaming inside. She's got all her friends. I've got all my songs. She's got all her words. Me? I'm surviving off of lyrics and breakdowns.

"You're not depressed," they said, "It's just the pill."

"You don't have anxiety," they said, "You're just shy."

And the dysphoria? Oh, they don't talk.

/if we ignore it, maybe she'll forget/ they whisper to each other.

"She," says the one person from the teriyaki stand. "Her," says the other one from Wendy's.

"He," I say as I stare at myself in the mirror, cheeks stained, "Him," I whisper, my voice cracking as I fall and play that stupid record over again with a bottle of pills in my hand, squeezing so hard I'm afraid I'll shatter the container.

I know I couldn't, though. I'm too weak. I'm not as strong as I should be. I'm not as masculine as I should be. I'll never be that strong, I'll never be that masculine. I'll never /really/ be like that.

"Cause all of our moves make up for the silence," they sing, "I'm just a notch in your bedpost but you're just a line in a song," they laugh, "Keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you," they smile.

"It's just past 8 and I'm feeling young and reckless," I sing, "This is the way they'd love if they knew how misery loved me," I yell, "The hand behind this pen relives a failure every day," I cry.

"We can fake it for the airwaves. Force our smiles, Baby, half dead
From the comparing myself to everyone else around me," I sob.

Well, it's been 30 or so minutes. I should probably end this here.