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I’m not entirely sure what I’m thinking by posting this. I’ve kept to myself for all this time, no one is going to read this, and no one on here cares anymore than anyone around here. I mean, people say the words, but they don’t really mean them. You can hear, “I DO care about you!” but as soon as they say that, they’re off doing something else. But I guess if I’ve come this far, if I typed the words on the search engine that led me to this website, if this really is some low blow at getting suicidal people reported, whatever the reason for this website, I really have nothing left to lose, anyway. I think my being here proves that.

My whole life, I’ve been generally unhappy. My mom left really early in life, and my dad stays gone all the time. My grandmother and my brother fight all the time, and that leaves me. But I still had the hope of getting out of here someday, even if I did have the horrible memories to follow me. Memories… Ones of my mom, I guess. And of times in the past when I’ve tried to kill myself, or desperately wanted to, and beat myself up the next day for not doing it the night before. I’ve cut for almost seven years now, ever since something really bad happened when I was twelve. And no one even believes that it happened. Not even my best friends, when I had them.

I don’t have friends. I used to.  I once had two of the greatest friends in the world, and I would have done anything for them. I still love them so much. The problem was, they also would do anything for me. When I was caught cutting at school, I would ask them to get me band-aids out of the office because teachers were on high alert after that. They would hide my razors, because they were scared to death I was going to get sent off again, and they were agreed with another teacher that that was the thing I needed very least. The oldest graduated, and I was left with one that I continued to drag through hell. She put up with another year of that, ending with listening to my pity stories of wanting to die. By the time she graduated, I was left alone. I didn’t blame her for stopping all contact after that. I didn’t even fight for her like I had fought for friends in the past. In beginning our friendship, I had told her that I had been hurt so many times in the past, I was scared to death of her. She swore she would be different, but even knowing better, I let my guard down, and let myself believe that she really would be. Her being gone still hurts. I miss her so badly, but I’ll never blame her.

She graduated my sophomore year. That next year, I had learned to stay out of people’s way. I was an outcast, and I kept notoriously to my notebook and pen. I’ve always kept to it, but my old friends pulled me out of it somewhat. But without them there, I had to be faithful to it. My social phobia wouldn’t allow me to look anyone in the eye, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by just staring straight out. So I just wrote. Now, when people say that they have no friends, they usually mean that they have people that they talk to on the side. But I literally mean, I had no one. I had an English teacher from freshman year that I talked to occasionally, and I thought myself pathetic that my only friend would be a teacher who probably didn’t even like me. I was still generally unhappy when I auditioned for GSA, the school I had dedicated hours and hours a day in practice for two years to get into, but three days after the audition, I found out the worst possible news a seventeen-year-old could find out. I was pregnant.

What on earth was I going to do? I had wanted to get into that school so badly, yet that was the very least of my problems. I was seventeen and pregnant, and to make things worse, I couldn’t tell anyone about the father. What happened was far too painful, that I can’t even write it in my own personal journal. I still, to this day, haven’t. I love my son, and I’d go through it again if it only could have waited. But I was so unprepared for this. Not even financially, but mentally. The scars on my arms are beyond counting. I read a story once about a girl who had over thirty, and almost laughed. I would be lucky to have few enough to even count. But I’m beyond that. I can’t handle myself, and I’m supposed to take care of someone else? How?

I went back to school. I’m a senior now. It was really bad the first few days, hearing “whore” and “slut” every other class. Now, I might get it every other day, at best. But it still hurts. And it doesn’t help that my dad drops these comments like, “You had a baby, so you need to do what you have to do. You don’t matter anymore,” and his tone implies that he knows all about the night it happened, like he was there. Last time I checked, no one was that’s saying this stuff, so no one else really has the right to have an opinion, do they? And their comments, what happened, not having anyone to talk to, having no one that cares, is eating away at me. I’m not strong enough to keep doing this.

I said before, I’ve always been generally unhappy, but I had the hope of getting out of here. That’s how I felt before I got pregnant. Now, I’m not happy at all, I’ve lost that hope, and I’m angry. And I’ve seen people who claim to feel like I feel; they make some sappy facebook status, or write a shoddy poem. I’m beyond that. I’m angry to the point that I can’t even put it into words. I want to go back to being generally unhappy, even miserable, if that’s what it takes. But I can’t take this. I’ve never been angry before, nothing short of normal anger. But to be angry all the time, and to be angry about your life… I can’t handle this.

I don’t know about killing myself. I don’t know how else I’m going to get out of this mess. I don’t want to, but you get punished for reaching out for help. Honestly, don’t you? They want you to turn your friends in, but when you do, they get shipped off to some nuthouse for a week to six months, claim them “cured” by some doctors who are paid to ask how they’re feeling everyday, and send them home. Then they’ll kill themself. Yeah, thanks for all the help. I just want someone who cares, who will stay with me as long as I need them to. but who will stay with me? Who cares that much? No one cares about me. I’m not worth caring for, and I don’t have the will to fight for me anymore. I don’t know what to do.