Hated

Dear Diary

From under my bed, I pull out a diary I made in the third grade and only started writing in it last week when cleaning my room. I figured it was better than slicing up my leg. It didn’t work too well. It still had my old markings:

Jenna’s Jornal

Kep Away Al Strangers

Lately I thought about it. About ending everything. Everything painful. Everything that hurt me. Heather dragged me out of my hell hole and into hers. She introduced me to Ana and refused to let me crawl away.

After 400 pushups, I open the journal and turn to the first page.

I jumped. I know why I did it, but was it all really worth it in the end? Was scarring everyone who saw my body fling itself off the bridge and into the shallow stream below worth it? Was watching my body make its way into the Mississippi river worth making all the pain go away? Of course it was.

Black. It’s all I could see after I jumped. I didn’t feel anything when my head collided first with the cobblestone at the bottom of the river. It was quick. The last nice thing God did for me before it all ended.

Suicide. It’s what they will tell my mother when they find my body. When the ones who observed my death with front row seats, come up to celebrate my amazing act. But then they will see it. A body laying face down in the river. Some will clap harder, and some will fumble for their phones, thinking they can still save me. It’s too late for that.

I kept having dreams of what it would be like if I did actually do it. If I did what everyone is begging me to do. Writing it down was the only thing that kept me from actually doing it. Kept me from slitting my wrists, hanging myself, or chugging a bottle of depression pills I should be taking.

The corners of the notebook have been slightly wilted from the use I put on it. The journal has been moved around my room ever since third grade, but I could never bring myself to throw it away. I close the journal and put it back underneath my bed.