I’m worthless.

When I was nine, I wanted to stab myself. At the time, I didn’t know what was going on. I had no legitimate reason behind wanting to kill myself at that age. My mother, of course, signed me up for therapy not quite getting what was going on herself. I suffered from panic and anxiety attacks for a while.

Now, I’m sixteen and it has gotten worse. I hate myself. I hate how I look, talk, act, and everything about me. I can spend my days locked in my room crying, screaming, and pulling my hair out. I can spend my days laughing, smiling, and hanging out with friends. I can spend my days irritated, furious, and wanting to punch someone. For a long time, I wanted to know what was wrong with me.

I’ve learned that I’m possibly bipolar. It isn’t something that’s easy to live with – especially when you’re not fond of yourself in the first place. Especially when you’re shy and let everything bottle up inside of you. Especially when you don’t know how the hell to express yourself and the people you call friends take you as a joke. Especially when you watch your them living their lives and you can’t bring yourself to.

I’m scared of everything – including myself. I don’t know what to do anymore to cope with this gnawing pain I constantly have. I feel lost. I feel stupid and I know that no one likes me. Crying until my eyes are blood red or cutting myself isn’t enough. That feeling is building up again. The one I had as a little girl that I didn’t quite understand. I truly want to die. Thus far, whenever I know I’m close to that point, I’m always interrupted. Yet, I know that there will come a time where it’ll be inevitable and that I’ll finally cease to exist.