The weirdest emotion I've ever had is the homesickness I have for the first time I was caught trying to kill myself. The first time someone realized I wasn't joking when I said that breathing in was like swallowing fire and exhaling left me feeling cold and empty and alone. Everyone heard me that time. The ones that were there believed me, at last, and I was gonna get help. I was gonna be better. Except better doesn't last. It never does. Better becomes decent and decent becomes bad and bad gets worse with every breath I take. It's worse now. And I can't tell anyone. I can't. Who could I tell? My suicidal best friend? My boyfriend, who I swear is barely hanging on to me now? That'd be enough to cut the fucking string. My family? Who do you tell that you've spent the last 6 months thinking of different, more creative ways to kill yourself? That one time you spent so long thinking about it, you forgot you hadn't done it yet and felt so fucking relieved because at last it's over, and then you snap back to reality and nearly scream because, fuck, I'm still alive. I'm still alive.
I don't know how long I've been suicidal. It's all just a blur past 8th grade.
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The Published Diary of a Sad Girl
No FicciónIt's all in the title, really. Just some of the things that bounce around my head, put on display. TW; suicide, depression, anxiety, basically a ton of mental illness. And probably cursing. If that is something you're uncomfortable with, I wouldn't...
