So I’m at the last year of high-school, seven teen and half years old, and I decide to commit suicide.
my life has always been shitty and miserable and what-not, but I can’t tell exactly what makes feel so.
I don’t know why I’m sad, but I am.
so I slit my wrists in the tub, but didn’t make it quite out of life, so I had to stay.
they took me to the ER and patched my bloody and and made me talk to this old women psychiatrist which clearly is far crazier than any one people I have ever been talking to, and she says I can go on with my life. she said that I am not a threat to myself and apparently.
this did not solve my problems and I soon came back to school only to feel more shit (only this time with meds that didn’t quite improve to my state of my mind).
So I can’t sleep and I make a lot noise at my parents house, and I can’t think currently, and I feel as if time is, like Einstein said, relative, only not the future – but to me.
in other words: my time passes the slowest.
they send my to a psyche ward where I meat a lot of creature once only thought of finding in Irish tales and fairy-land, but… what do you know!… apparently they live in psyche wards too.
I stay there with everything that sucks in this place, and Einstein’s goddamned time seems to go only slower, and this psychiatrist in the ward keeps trying to reverse-psychology me out of feeling blue, which only makes me feel a bit purple but not very happy if I might add. all the time I’m taking this horrible medication that is giving me Parkinson, and then I get to go back out into the big world.
at that time I tried to hang myself and the rope snapped, and I survived with superficial, but still horrid, wounds, and I go to another psyche ward and I get realesed from that one too after being acquainted with what is apparently the clinical equivalent of the Balrog, and now I’m 20 and I’ve been dead all along.