A confession

Sometimes I do things that I know aren’t normal. Sometimes I drink when I am alone, drinks that are too strong to be acceptable and enough to make it hurt the next day. Sometimes I smoke, something I would have been disgusted to do two years back. Sometimes I cut my wrists – I would have cringed at the thought barely six months ago.

I do it all because I’m depressed. I do it because I know if I do the alternative the outcome would be a lot worse than a sore throat or head or scar marks.

Sometimes I become manipulative. It’s a way of getting my feeling onto someone else, a way for me to feel numb for some time. Because that’s what I want at the end of it. I want to be numb. Drink, cigarettes, pills, razor, knife… it’s all a way to go numb and I hate it so much.

In school, I was so against the idea of even being depressed – how could you be depressed at fifteen? I would think. But now, merely five years later and with my walls at my feet and feeling so naked, it’s so easy to be depressed. And it’s so easy to cut your wrists and take those pills and drink too much. It’s so easy and so nice to feel numb.

As all I want is to be dead but I can’t.  I have a sister who wouldn’t be able to cope without me. And I have people who threaten their own life if I go. But even at my worst I can hardly think straight and think of them. So that’s why I do this.


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