The world is full of hurt and I'm my own one way ticket to the pain it brings. I'm eighteen, graduating. Nothing more; nothing less.
Warning: Explicit content lies within this book.
You know the saying, "Once you're able to speak of your experience without crying, you're over it"? That's not the case. I was able to tell my experience, but only to certain people I trusted. And I didn't trust many.
I was able to speak of them without bursting into tears, not because I got over it, but because I grew numb. I felt nothing. My experiences of rape, drugs, drinking, abuse, they all felt like nothing. I felt hollow, bodiless. I felt nothing but pain and the pain became empty. I was a walking casket.
Depression isn't a game. Suicide isn't a game. I'm suicidal but I don't need someone to plead their sorrow to me by calling a suicide hotline. Because, if that was the case, I'd be dead a long time ago.
I hate being spoiled or held. I hate being touched or concerned for. But most of all, I hate having a heart. I grew to hate how I cared for people, especially the feeling of thinking that someone would change. I hated it! And, for that, I hated myself.
I tried tying a noose around my neck and tightened it from my bunk bed when I was twelve. I jumped from the top in hope to fall and snap my neck. Sadly, I fell and nearly broke my arm. I untied the rope around my neck and crawled onto the bottom bunk. I curled into a ball, clutching my knees and begging to just die.
Every day, I looked Death in the eyes and I smiled. I smiled in hope he'd take all the pain away. I smiled, begging him to take me away from this hell. They say there is Heaven, Hell, and an in between after life on Earth. I don't believe that. I know this is Hell. Earth is Hell. Life is living Hell.
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