The death of Chatterton

Ive been reading suicideproject posts for many many years now, but ive never expected myself to actually post anything here.

Why would I?

You know, I have this diary.. someone told me long ago, that writing my problems down along with the current date might help me get through things. That, looking back at these problems after years, will make me realise how small they were.

My first entry was made the night I ran away, hid in the woods, cold, scared, hurt, with no one to turn to. After that, it was basically a long series of entries, it was me dealing with the whole thing, with everything that happened, but most importantly, with myself, cause I certainly wasnt going easy on me.

I would write down my darkest thoughts, describe these long long nights when I considered going through with it for even longer hours.

So what am I even doing here? Shouldnt this be just another entry in my diary?

Yeah, thought about this… and you know.

Who would ever read it?

…

At least here, I have some tiny hope that someone will know that I was there. That I hurt. It didnt just, happen, you know, cause someone told me something, or cause I took the wrong dosage by accident, no, it was a long series of misfortunes and pain.

Now can you imagine? Being so alone, people won’t even know what got you.

All my protagonists were always, always alone and died a tragic death they didnt deserve. I couldnt do nothing even though I  created them. And they were always so similar…

Yeah, it doesnt matter.

Tons of texts, tons of stories, tons, I wrote tons of them, I could be a writer, thats what my dad told me a long, long time ago. When he was still there.

I was. I was a writer for myself. For myself, cause you know, the book doesnt have no worth, if no one can understand it.

I dont feel like a writer right now. This is a disaster.

If I go, Im going.

Tonight.