This is the way the world ends:/Not with a bang, but a whimper.

I've been here less than a week and I already hate it here. I keep forgetting how many awful memories this place holds. At least I haven't gotten sick...yet.

I'm trying to work up the courage to tell my mom just how much I resent the way I grew up, how much I hate it, hate thinking about it, hate everything that has anything remotely to do with it. But how do you tell your parents that it was most likely their profession (not just any profession, but serving God) that screwed you up so badly in the first place? That it was their profession that made you pretty much turn away from religion, faith, and God? That you hate and resent just about everything they've worked for?

You can't.

So I suck it up, and bite my tongue, and move on to another topic of conversation every time it comes to mind. I can't help but think, though, that maybe getting it all off my chest--to them, not to a faceless journal or a blog nobody reads--would help, at least somewhat. Somehow, though, I don't think so.

Which is bad, because I've come to realise something very important (and very bad), that was confirmed only a couple of days ago by my mom: this is my life. I will most likely never be able to function properly without massive doses of meds and weekly therapy. The sun, when visible, will burn my skin and sear my eyes; the only silver linings will be from flashlights silhouetting something. My best days will be ones I don't think of suicide, self-harm, or relative worthlessness. Thus far, I haven't had one--not a single effing one--in nine years.

Nine years. Not a long time, by most measurements, but when you're only twenty-one, that's a hell of a long time to be staring into the darkness. Even now, when I'm doing so much better than I was even two weeks ago, it's there, and there's so little holding me back. To be completely honest, I'm not looking forward to the rest of my life. It's hard enough getting up in the morning with just the idea of the coming day; realising that the rest of my life will most likely be the same makes it that much harder and that much worse. They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem; that's what I said to my mom when she stopped me and said, point-blank, "It's not temporary, honey. This is your life." I want to get better, so badly. Don't tell me that faith or prayer will fix it. If prayer worked, I would have been healed long ago.

Life is what you make it, or so they say. Unfortunately, despite my (and my family's) best efforts, apparently all I can make of life is crap. Or really foul lemonade. Whichever expression suits you best, I suppose. There's so little motivating me right now; sadly, a big part of it is the possibility that I will be able to totally ruin someone's day, or really offend them, or maybe just piss them off far more than they have ever been, or ever will be. I know it's bad, to live for upsetting other people. But at this point, I guess I just don't give an effing damn anymore. My very personality seems to offend a lot of people, I might as well start doing it deliberately.