When my parents, friends or random people ask me about my day, all I’ll do is say “It was fine.”
Not a day passes that I don’t feel useless, hateful and sad. Not a single day.
My days are never ‘fine’. They’re far from it.
I spend every single day of mine, hurting myself and wishing it would end. It doesn’t, but wanting it is the only thing I still have strength for.
Every single day I would come home from school, throw up that little piece of beagle I ate instead of my breakfast, go to my room and lock the doors.
Every day I would take my razor out. Every day I would do thing to stop the mental pain I was feeling more and more by each passing day. Every day I hope it’s the last one.
Ever since I’ve been in the mental health hospital, they would guard me, check up on me every thirty minutes. That gives me enough time to do a small damage.
But after one in the morning, they stop cheking up on me, and they come back at six a.m. sharp.
And that gives me enough time to do what I’m used to.
Yeasterday, i destroyed my arm completely. Tore it appart.
It was exactly 3:37 a.m., the right time I found out my brother died.
I would do that every day at the same time, letting the guilt to consume me.
Now the doctor that comes to my room twice a day had a glimpse at my arm, and is about to call my parents to inform them that I’m about to stayvtwo months linger than planned.
What do I do?