This book is just me wanting to kill myself. Basically me being depressed and wanting to die. If that triggers you. Don't read this and ignore me. Please......
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I hate myself. I feel fat. I want to do it so bad. Therapy just isn't working.
I feel terrible. Because its not working. I haven't cut since January. 2 fucking months. I want to see blood. I want pain. I deserve this. I deserve to die.
I can't make anyone happy. No one is happy. I feel like my friends hate me. I feel like I'm can't trust anyone. I've bottled this up since January.
I want to so bad. Its driving me crazy. I want them to shut up and go away from me. These damn voices in my head.
It feels like no one cares, everyone tells my private shit to others. What if I didn't want them to know how much I missed my boyfriend, or how fucking love hungry I was. How I just wanted to be hugged.
Maybe I hate being teased.
Maybe it makes me hate myself more.
Maybe I'm just an idiot who doesn't deserve to life a happy life.
What's happy mean??
What's that word??
I haven't heard it since 2nd grade. I haven't truly felt it have I? I'm just psycho? I'm just schizophrenic? I'm just fat? I'm ugly? I'm insane and out of order?
Maybe I'd be better of dead. Maybe I'm not meant to experience true happiness.
Maybe just one more time. The scissors are my escape, my addiction, my happiness.
My life
I would love to feel the numbing pain. Scratch back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth. Across my skin. The red substance poor out. I would love to see the scars it leaves on my sugar, pale skin.
Why can't I cut. Scared I'll die they say. But how could I die if I can barely draw blood.....
