AND-CRY-MYSELF-TO-SLEEP

anonymous asked:

I dont know what to do anymore. I try to explain my problem to my parents but they dont understand and its hurting me more than helping. I have no one i can talk to. I cry myself to sleep so many times im so tired.

It’s hard to get people to understand mental illness. I’m sorry you’re living with parents who don’t support you. You deserve people who understand you and care about you. I want you to get better. I really do. And I care about you, and I understand what you’re doing through. Don’t give up.

"Don't go." || Jack Maynard

A/N – hey guys, hopefully this will be better than the last one 😂. Not sure why, but I seem to do better in sad imagines it’s weird 🤘🏻 hopefully this ones ok, so let me know what you think. Love you all ❤️

- E x

— Y/N’s POV —

It’s over. I can’t do it anymore. I’m leaving him.

The past 6 months he’s been so distant. More focused on YouTube. He’s barely even talked to me, it’s like I’m not there and I can’t cope with that anymore. Sitting in bed and crying myself to sleep at night because the person who is meant to love me isn’t showing that he does. I’ve had enough.

I wake up - once again completely alone as most nights he now falls asleep on the sofa - and see the time is 8:00 am, he won’t be awake.

Being as quiet as possible I grab a suitcase and start packing it with all of my things, making sure nothing is left behind.

No traces of me.

Once everything is packed, i set to writing a note.

I grab my suitcase and leave the note on the kitchen side, pinned securely under my door key. I say a mental goodbye to the man I fell for, and leave through the front door with hot tears stinging my red cheeks as I get in the taxi and head for the airport.

I’m going somewhere, just no idea where.

— Jack’s POV —

“Babe? Y/N? Babe?” I call, wandering all around the house until hit the bedroom.

‘What the hell?’ I think, then it hits me. I pushed her too far, the one thing I was afraid I was doing in the first place.

She’s gone.

I run downstairs to get the phone when a breeze hits through the window and makes a small sheet of paper rustle on the kitchen counter as I walk over to see what it says.

It’s exactly what I didn’t want it to be:

Jack,
I can’t do this any more. Us. If we can call it that.
I’ve been with you for almost five years now and you’ve never been so distant. I’ve held on for six months and I’m seeing no signs of the Jack I once knew. The Jack I love.
I want him back. I really honestly do, but I’m seeing no possible way of getting him back because you’ve been more focused on YouTube than who we are.
You are the only man I have ever loved, but recently I’m starting to think differently about your feelings towards me.
So I asked myself, 'what am I doing here?’, and the answer was - 'I don’t know.’. I’m un happy.
I’m sorry.
- Y/N
xx’

I grab my phone and ring her.

Over and over again but I get no answer. That’s it. I lost her. I faded away from her, and I had no idea how much I was hurting her in turn. It’s my fault.

I treated her badly and I didn’t see it. I was more focused in becoming big on YouTube, hitting a million. And that took control over me, and eventually thy took control over my relationship with Y/N.

I keep calling her but I get no answer, how the hell did I not see this coming?

I walk over to the counter that stands in the living room, holding framed pictures of me and her.

I pick one up, staring at how happy we used to be. How much I used to care for her when she needed it. She needed in lately and I haven’t known.

One last time, her phone goes to answer machine.

“Don’t go.”

And there was nothing poetic about wanting to kill myself and writing so many suicide notes in my head explaining how sorry I was for the things I did not become. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about crying myself to sleep every night for the past 5 years hoping someone would care enough to save me. No one saved me. No one was going to save me because there is nothing poetic about thinking you can’t be saved. There is nothing poetic about staring at a blank wall for an entire day or smiling and laughing the next and having people think “oh she’s fine.” There was nothing poetic and beautiful about trying to take my own life. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about my mother having a panic attack every time I have a bad day and lock my door. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about me not taking my pills because I don’t know who I am without this sadness. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about having depression and wishing you were dead. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about my depression or anyone else’s depression nor will there ever be anything beautiful and poetic about it.
—  Fuck anyone that says it’s beautiful//Deeply Feeling Series
3

He’s brilliant, you know? I’ve heard him underestimated on that score, perhaps owing to his physical strength. People finding it hard to accept the idea that one man can be two things, but I’ve seen it. He is brilliant. And last night, all he wanted was revenge, and all that would satisfy it was Eleanor Guthrie’s head on a plate. And in a moment in which he had no appetite to be persuaded otherwise, I persuaded him otherwise. If the story of the pirate Jack Rackham is to end with him standing alongside Blackbeard as an equal, together defeating the governor who hanged Charles Vane and in so doing restoring pirate rule over Nassau… that is an ending I can live with.