I want to die. So, so bad. I can't take it anymore. I just can't. I'm useless. I'm worthless. Pathetic. No one gives a damn about me. The ones that say they do? That's an act, sweetheart. Of course they don't really care. No one cares. The sooner you finally accept that, the sooner you can end your misery.

The sooner you end it all, the happier everyone will be. Maybe you're thinking "But so many people miss Taylor." Well, you're not Taylor. Never have been, never will be. People will never care as much about you as they cared about him. Everyone loves you when you're there for them, but the moment that you show emotion, the moment you have a problem of your own, people leave. They don't want you getting the wrong idea. That they're your friends. That they, God forbid, care about you, or some similar bullshit. You're a therapist, nothing more. And when you think
you are. That is how pathetic you are. That has to be enough proof for you to finally kill yourself, you cowardly bitch.

End it all. Or bow out again and keep suffering.

**I think this was mostly written by the darkness inside of me. But the darkness is part of me. These are my thoughts. And I can't get rid of them completely. I've tried. I'm sorry**

-Serena (and her depression)