I’ve been suicidal for so long that I don’t remember what it felt like to be normal.Â The first time I wrote it down, I was nine.Â My mother found my journal — the only thing I remember about the conversation is her saying how “embarrassing” it would be if the neighbors found out.Â They’d think she was a “bad mother” and why was I such a depressing child anyway; nothing terrible had ever happened to me.Â And she was right, I had a perfectly normal childhood, and so I couldn’t explain to her why I felt this way.Â I just . . . learned to pretend to be like everybody else.Â I dropped out of college after a semester — I was on full scholarship, and my mother was furious.Â That’s been almost five years, and I haven’t gone back to school.Â People ask why I haven’t.Â I don’t want to tell them it’s because I never expected to live this long.Â I’ve never really dated, I don’t have a “best friend” — I just . . . want to be the first priority in someone else’s life.Â I want to matter, but I’m too shy to reach out to people.Â
I just don’t want to feel alone anymore.