When I was a little girl, neighbourhood bullies made me bury a tiny baby bird alive. I had no choice or they would beat me. I wear the guilt in my heart every day.
I’m 15 years old. I turn 16 on the 19th June. But you know something? I don’t think I’m going to get there anymore. I don’t really care, either. Another birthday marks another year of being in constant pain. It’s not teenage drama, Â it’s not because of the boy I like rejecting me or my parents grounding me, or anything like that, that’s just silly delusions for people that haven’t seen the dark side of the moon yet. Â Look at life like the moon. The moon is bright, and beautiful…but for some of us, it’s dark. Blinding. Ugly, painful.
I guess in a way, I could look at myself like that. When I was younger people called me ugly. Ugly geeky anorexic girl. I never did anything to them, but I was just so easy to target. Now…well. It sounds so big headed, but now I have guys, and some girls, at my feet.
But I don’t want them. I want them to get away from me.
I don’t know if anyone really knows what it’s like to be seen as just the pretty face. No one really cares about you. No one understands when you’re upset or heartbroken, and no one understands if you slit your wrists. Because you’re pretty, how can you not be happy when you’re so pretty? How can you be sad with so many falling for you? How can you hate yourself when you’re so thin and have such doe eyes and all that other shit I’ve heard so many god damn times. I would give up everything, everything in the world, my looks, my body, anything I had that anyone wanted, Â for someone to understand. For someone to just…know.
But there will never be anyone like that.
Where I am, it’s 12:28 am. For the last 36 hours I have been thinking long and hard about another suicide attempt.
Another? There have been two. When I was 14, I overdosed on a large amount of various painkillers. I fell to unconsciousness, and woke up bleary eyed with a serious stomach pain 16 hours later. No one in the house had noticed. That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t even get a goodnight from my mum. Â I could have been dead and they wouldn’t have noticed. Â About a month later, I gave up on painkiller suicides, and tried to hang myself from a bar in my wardrobe. It could have worked. I tied a belt around the bar as tight as I could get it, the loop around my neck. I lay there for about 3 minutes with it getting tighter and tighter, and cutting into my neck. I couldn’t breathe, and my vision started to blur before it Â began to fade to black. I thought I was going. I thought this was it, the end, the end of everything at last. I’d finally got away from everything. But then..
there was a loud cracking sound. My head hit the bottom of the wardrobe. the bar had broken. I spluttered, my body trying to get oxygen back. My heart pounded in my chest. My lungs were screaming and the belt had cut my neck until it left permanent marks. All I remember thinking was “I failed. I failed again.”
I know a way I wouldn’t fail. Near me, in Andover, there is a multi story car park. I could jump. I could jump from the fourth floor. The highest there is. I could fall through the air and then bang, and I’m gone. Hell, the only thing i’m worried about is the people that have to clean it up afterwards.
As I type this i’m talking about my plan with a ‘friend’. Another guy that used me for my body really. He’s saying the same thing anyone else did. “Don’t kill yourself, suicide is weak, suicide is Â the easy way out, you have so much to live for, theres so much you haven’t seen.”
Well Tom. I’m weak. I want the easy way out. I don’t have anything to live for. And I don’t want to see any more.