As a few may have noticed, I've been absent for more than an acceptable amount of time. A few have asked me if I was/am 'OK'...
Well, I wasn't and I'm not.
Four months ago, I tried to end my life. My parents were furious with my decision and my Father was the one to find me bleeding out on the kitchen floor; he had returned home early from work.
I was forced to hospital and examined, pointlessly, for hours, every doctor known to man just asking me the same question over and over again.
'Why did you do it?'
If I cannot answer myself, how could I answer them? I said, simply "I don't know." And then my parents were telling me to be specific. It took them years, but they finally saw me for what I am: I am a depressed teen and I took the depression so far that I wanted to slice my wrists in my own home.
My parents were angry because 'What if your brother had been there?'
What if? HE WASN'T. But I, yes, I was there; I was there and I was bleeding, I had made myself bleed because I did not want to live.
Why do my parents not understand that?
They decided to send me to a 'ward', to make sure I don't 'do it again'. They think it's a phase, that I'm just having a 'tough time' adjusting to life. A few months in a mental ward, a quick visit here and there, medication: I'm all better, never not well.
I'm now at home, finally able to post all of my writings that weren't confiscated.
I'll try not to make the same mistake as taking my own life. Next time, I'll succeed.
