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No one is going to read this. I don’t know why I came back here to this website. I figured I never would after I found it the first time, but here I go again… This is exactly like when I found out I was pregnant, to a T; I was going to end my life, but then, an opportunity presented itself. I saw what might be a reason to live. Judging by before, assuming that the past paints a pretty good portrait of the future, I’ll be worse off than before. If I had gone through with everything before, I wouldn’t be hurting this way now. If I take this and it doesn’t work out, I’ll have left behind even more tracks. I don’t want to leave any more footprints.

Sometimes at school, I’ll think about calling home so I can leave early and just do it. I start to think that I wouldn’t back out if I were to do it at that moment, when I was feeling a bit braver. Ironically enough, I’m really not afraid to die. The actual process doesn’t scare me, but not knowing what happens to consciousness, to the soul (assuming there is one), that’s what scares me. I remember seeing Casey, a classmate and friend who died my sophomore year in a car accident, lie in the casket at his funeral, and even though his lips were so dried and his skin so pale, he looked as though he could raise back up at any given moment.

Do we choose to die? Is a near-death experience what you call it when you change your mind at the last second? The Bible is only a book of analogies… So is there really a heaven or a hell? Sylvia Brown said that we choose to come back here after reviewing in the Hall of Wisdom how we did. Sounds ludicrous, but is it? We don’t have much to go by. God just never came out and said anything. I’m not scared of dying; I’m scared of God, but I’m not afraid of admitting it. I’m convinced that the only reason I’m here is to prove He makes mistakes. If that’s the case, I’ve served my purpose, so I really have no more reason to be here, do I? Everyone would be better off, particuarly my son (and he’s really the only one that matters anymore, anyway). I want to be needed so badly, but no one needs me. They don’t even want me around. They’re indifferent. I’d rather be hated than not cared about.

I’m not sure the thought of dying scares me nearly as much as the thought of living. I know that in two weeks from now, six months, a year, five years from now, I’m still going to be as screwed up as when I began. And I’d rather not be a part of something like that. If I haven’t done something noteworthy by now, then I’m wasting my time and that of everyone else’s in attempting to do so. I’ve already done more than what I can ever make up for. The closest I’ll ever come will be making sure that I don’t ever hurt anyone ele again. My life has been one mistake right after another. If it wasn’t me screwing up, then someone else was screwing up my life for me. But maybe I asked for a lot of the things in my life. I don’t know who I should blame. I’m lying if I don’t admit that I’m angry at God, and I don’t need anymore sin stacked up against me. He knows everything anyway, so there’s no point in lying to begin with. I’m angry at how my life has turned out. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t know why He would do this to me, or let this happen.

Would anyone be sad at all? I doubt it. If there’s any sort of reaction at all, it’ll be laugher over how stupid I am. They’ll wonder why I didn’t do it sooner, what took me so long. I think others would be glad, ecstatic that I’m gone. Still, there’ll be plenty of people who don’t care either way. The only tears at my funeral will be those of joy, far from grief. But that’s what hurts the most; people don’t care. They don’t, not at all. I would rather be surrounded by people that hated me. At least then, they would care enough to let me know that they hated me, but I don’t even get that much. Maybe I’m selfish, or jealous. I don’t know… Why shouldn’t I be jealous? I watch everyone else at school with their friends and in their own little groups, and I desperately want to be a part of that. But no one cares, and even if they did, I’d be too afraid to let them in, anyway. I’ve been through too much in my life to let more people hurt me, and I’m not justified to hurt anyone else.

I know I’m not supposed to burden people. But as much as I’ve already done it, one more can’t hurt much. I hate to be so weak, but I just want to tell somebody something before I do this. Johnson is one of the people on my list to apologize to. He’s my band director. I’ve spent five years trying to earn his approval, five because I played for the high school when I was in middle school. I never knew why I cared so much what he thought, but I never stopped trying to impress him. Maybe I can talk to him; he’ll laugh at me, and I’ll be reinforced in my ideas. He’ll tell me how stupid I am, and how I should suck it up and get over it. Or even worse; he might turn me in. Yeah, let’s do that. I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning. God, I’m stupid. For the most part, I’ve learned by now to keep my mouth shut. But you can tell by now, that’s about to kill me, and quite literally.

I never want to hurt anyone, but I kick myself every time I let the chance to tell someone slip away. It’s the egotistical part of me, begging my stronger half to tell someone my plans. I almost feel as though the real me is being held captive by some prison guard that won’t let me out. And I’m in so deep, nobody can hear me cry for help. Who I really am isn’t who I am now. Maybe this is finally the real me talking, because I don’t want to do this. I wish someone could recognize that this isn’t me, and I’m trapped. I’m not Jessie at all. Why can’t someone see that? Because I conform to expectations. I have black hair because I can’t get anything to go through it, and so I’m automatically associated with the goths who, of course, the whole “self-pity,” and “tear my hear open” thing is natural and accepted. Not that I write anything centered around that, but point being… I don’t even shop at Hot Topic; I wear dress shirts mostly, because I want to look nice. I pull my hair back, and I like to wear little diamond pendants. But my social phobia, my black hair, and my rock music, even given it’s Christian, gives me a label before anyone even knows me. And nobody suspects anything at all out of someone who stays constantly in one place. To do anything would “come as no surprise.” They would think that I was ignorant, stupid. They already do, anyway. And why shouldn’t they? I am.

I can’t stand this place anymore. I hate feeling like a military dog every time I walk into school. I hate being alone here all day long with no one to talk to. I’m tired of writing in bathroom stalls when I don’t have anywhere else to go during lunch and the librarian kicks me out of the library, people looking down on me, my obligations, everything. At home, I hold my son and rock him, and I cry over him. What kind of a mother does that? I can’t even enjoy being home from school and spending time with him, because I’m miserable when I get here. Before, I went to school to get away from home. Now, once I’m at school, the way things are now, I want to go home to get away from it. But again, it’s horrible to be anywhere now. I don’t have anywhere to go and just rest, to get away from anything. I could retreat to my notebook with my pen before, and I could write beautiful music. I used to be able to write Christian rock, contemporary. I loved doing it. Now, I can’t bring myself to write anything.

I put a new razor in the bathroom, one not dulled by bad nights, for when something happens that compels me to go through with it. There have been a few occasions that I know I could’ve done it, but I never could find anything to do it with. I thought about drinking some tile cleaner one time, but even diluted in water, the burn on my lips was so bad, it scared me to think of that burning my stomach. I thought that it would be such a painful death. But with a razor, I won’t need anything else.

But I still don’t understand… why won’t someone just ask me? I promise I won’t lie, given I’m asked the right questions. But my standards are too high. No one cares, nor should they care. I’m as bad as they come, as ignorant and awkward as the two can get. I can’t even speak right. So it seems like who I was born as will be the cause of my death. I am my own demise.

Why would I go to hell for doing this? God makes faulty people who have no other choice, and we’re just supposed to live life? God wouldn’t make such sick people and then send them to hell for being ill. But what if it’s caused by us? We cause our own lives, make our own beds, and that’s where we lie, right? No. That still wouldn’t make any sense. I don’t understand this at all.
Constant frustration. Constant panic. Constant everything. It’s reached the point that I can physically feel everything my mind has to offer. There’s always a hook in my stomach or a burn in my chest, constantly. And no matter what I do, I can’t shake it.

I tried to make a list of all of the reasons that I had to live. Even if it seemed almost insignificant, it would still be worth adding. There wasn’t one thing on that list; even my son is better off without me. I have no reason to live, but I have every reason to die. And the only reason I don’t is because I’m a coward. But if I can ever get past the fear of what I don’t know, I’ll be gone.
People say that they can’t get up in the morning, and I think how carelessly that phrase is tossed around. I’ve repeatedly brought new meaning to it. When I’m laying in bed in the morning before school, I hate myself even more, wishing that I had gone through with it the night before. I keep making that wish until, on some mornings, I’m driven to tears. When I say that I don’t have the will to continue on, it’s to the point where, at times, I stumble in the hallways at school because I don’t feel like I can walk. In these places, I wonder what would happen if I just fell to the floor in tears. I know people would laugh at me, tell me to suck up and keep going.

I’m not done yet. I have to keep going. I have to. But how? I can’t even get out of bed in the morning without fighting myself, and I can’t keep pulling up this strength. I’ve already run out; I can only scrape the bottom of the jar so many times before it’s all completely gone. What am I going to do when that happens? I’ve gone as far as I can go, and no one cares at all. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I want to keep writing, and I don’t know what else to say. I know no one is listening, and no one can help me. I’m going to be on my own, no matter how this all ends up.