Taken from Robert Crumb’s Plunge Into The Depths Of Despair (1983)
And if anyone wants these comic strips in a PDF form:
so when I was 9 I started getting bullied really badly I eventually only had two friends and that was that, all I had on my schedule was crying, being bullied, and crying. then when I was 10 i thought things were getting better but they just4 got worse, my grandma started dying and I loved her dearly. and i missed a few days of school cause i was at the hospital with her. people started to leave me alone a bit and I even started to get more friends. but that didn’t last long. in 5th grade this girl came to my school and we were best friends, her name was tia. well, she left being my friend for a clique who bullied the shit outta me. and things went downhill. Tia succeeded at taking over their group and everything feel down. that was the first time I ever thought about killing myself. and it wouldn’t be the last. In 6th grade I was dreading going back to school. And when I got back to school….everything just got worse. I had a billion journals full of poems and songs and drawings and diary entries, and well tia got her hands on them, you guys probably know what comes next. she showed it to the whole school. and damn i just lost it. when I got home i raided the pill cabnet and well i was about to swallow a bunch of pills but then they all fell on the floor. and so I picked them all up and when I was done i just didn’t feel the urge to die anymore. to this day i still have a bottle of random pills. now i’m in seventh grade.and things were going great, I’m going to a new school and everyone accepted me at first, until my best friend since pre-k decided to turn her back on me. she told everyone that I was a lesbian and that I molested her. I broke down when I heard that I just wouldn’t stop crying. she was my best friend. we fueded for about a week until things went back to normal, sorta. but, that week when we were fighting, I cut for the first time, i cut broken hearts into my arm. then a couple weeks later I cut again, then a week later again, i couldn’t and can’t stop cutting. A couple months later the girl, sarah, Yelled at me in band and said all this shit, she said I was a whore and a slut, she saidx i’ve had so many boyfriends, she said that all I do is complain complain complain, that i’m a spoiled brat who fakes being depressed. she said that i deserve to die. she said that if i was anorexic she should get professional help instead of talking to my friends about it. I just stood there, tears forming in my eyes, I didn’t say anything. except for “I can’t believe you just said that, you *****.” and then the bell rang and I ran to class crying. I hid my face behind my bangs and everyone was staring. that night I cut, deep. right on my vein, nothing bad really happened cause I didn’t hit the vein but i almost did. the next day I cut my arm 37 times. and then the next day my friend ciarah wanted to know if I wanted to come over, I said sure, I thought for a moment that it was a trap, that sarah was going to be there. I shrugged it off and went over to ciarah’s house. ciarah took my into the basement and started asking me about sarah and about why I was mad at her, why were we fighting. and I told her that sarah had said things about me. but I didn’t badmouth sarah, I knew better than that. then I went upstairs and when I turned around I sa1 sarah coming up the stairs and I just stood there for a few seconds and i teared up. “I knew this was a trap. i trusted you though ciarah. ugh” and i walked away “where are you going?” ciarah asked “home, *****.” and I got on my bike and rode home as fast as I could. I cut two times. a few weeks later when I had forgiven ciarah she invited me over again to this school she lives by. so I agreed. and when my mom dropped me off she saidx “are you sure sarah isn’t here?” she asked “yes mom, ciarah wouldn’t sabotage me again.” I said “okay, just call me if you need anything.” she said worried “I will, bye mom.” I walked off toward ciarah….and sarah. “what the hell is she doing here?” i yelled at ciarah. “she wanted to come so calm your tits jacks.” she replied “yeah jackie calm th FUCK down.” sarah spat at me. “sarah shut up.”…abouut 20 minutes later sarah was yelling at me saying I was a whore and a ***** and a fuck off and thathI should kill myself already. I started walking off and ciarah and sarah followed, i texted my mom to pick me up and then sarah turned me around and punched me. i was bleeding then she scratched my arm and blood started pouring from the cuts, she looked at me in alarm, i said “look what you did *****!!!” “just leave me the fuck alone.” i said stopping the blood with my sleeve. my mom vame and saw my arm and looked at sarah and sarah ran away.” what did she do!?” my mom yelled. “nothing okay, i just fell I swear.” and we left it at that. flash forward to now. sarah left the school and i havn’t seen her since two months ago. and everything is going allright besides the fact that my bff has cancer. one of my awesome friends moved away and she can never ever talk to me again. the guy I like (almost love) is moving away and he said he loved me. and i have 44 scars on my arm and I cut again laszt night…make that soon to be 45…
To get up, and just keep on going through the day. How do some people do it? Where I’m from, they mostly do it by smoking, drinking, or shoving pills or drugs through their veins. They laugh at those who do good with their life, and invite the ones who are just as bad as themselves.
There’s this one girl in my class. I won’t give her real name, so let’s call her Ashley. I’ve known Ashley for quite a while, back in elementary school. She was a carefree brunette. She was a tomboy back then, always bringing me about the playground to play, when all I wanted to do was stay in the safety shade under the tree on top of the hill. I never wanted to leave that spot. I always practiced drawing there. On a sunny day, I’d be right there, until the fresh green leaves, just trying to find inspiration for my next little doodle. During the winter, I’d stay at my desk during our play time and draw. Everyone else was playing.
Ashley made sure I at least got away from my drawings once a week, during our recesses. Made me follow her as she dragged me along the playground. I’d whimper quietly about how I didn’t like the sun, and it was too hot to run around, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d still drag me around, like I was as athletic as her. Those were simpler times. Times where she actually didn’t mind me.
Fast forward a couple years, to about 5th grade. She’s changed from the two or three years I’ve known her. I’m stuck in the past, expecting her to drag me around during recess. But she wouldn’t. She had met new girls. One’s name was Carla, and the other, Daisy (their names are changed too.) Now Carla was a little like me, Hispanic, mexicanish, some people call it. Darker than white but whiter than black. But you could tell I was completely American. Daisy was a soft white, not like bleached skin, but like she was darker, but she softly used natural ingredients to whiten her tone. The three were gorgeous little ladies at the time (Remember I’m just as young as they are right now, so there’s no pedo stuff.). But I always expected Ashley to come and take me away around the playground. Now? Now, they just walked around. They wore tighter clothes, skinny jeans. Hookers in the making, maybe?Â That’s what I’d call them now, but this is then. They talked about a lot of things, boys, clothes, make up. And they passed right by me occasionally. This is where I started my ‘Hooker-fest’ era of drawings.
I didn’t see Ashley or her friends for all of middle school, so let’s skip to the present. Right now, she hasn’t changed since 5th grade. Yet I overheard her friends, and more newer ones, all talk of drugs and alcohol and sex. They’re all like reincarnations of the worst hookers known to man.Â They still wear their skin tight jeans. But now they have rips in the thighs. They have see-through leggings and thongs on, they don’tÂ bother to conceal themselves. they wear spagetthi straps and show off their cleavage, ripped up shirts thatÂ show their bra. they wear millions of shades ofÂ eye shadow.Â Countless eye liners and lipsticks. They don’t know the meaning ofÂ ‘too much’Â anything… It’s sad, because the little girls I once knew as friends grew up to be (in my mind) crazy, psychotic girls who would rather fuck for money than get a job. These girls, are still going to be future sluts. I know this. They’re already heading in that direction.
I used to sit with her in one class we had together. It was before I switched my seat somewhere else in the class. She recognized it was me, the Domino she once knew, and began talking to me again. Her friends apparently knew me from my pieces of art around the school. They talked to me. I felt like I was one of them again. I was so close to getting Ashley back, and away from the world. They told me the Homecoming dance was coming up. They’d take me to the mall, get meÂ a nice tuxedo and a pretty lady to dance with. They even introduced me to the fair maiden during our similar lunch periods. I couldn’t make up the idea of actually going to homecoming or not. I consulted with friends. They said DO NOT GO. I didn’t. They were right. They were caught giving blowjobs to guys behind the bleachers. Pictures over the internet shown them with running lipstick, crazy hair, and messed up, very slutty prom dresses. I’d never talk to them again.
It’s sad. BecauseÂ while they all go by with life.
I’m still waiting. For her to take me by the wrist and drag me around the playground once more.
~ True Story by DOMINO JAYS
Alone I sit,
Alone I think,
Alone I experience,
Alone I cry,
Alone I reach for the knife,
Alone I cut,
Alone I watch the blood,
Alone I feel the pain.
Alone I think about cutting deeper,
Alone I experience my sadness,
Alone I cry my eyes out,
Alone I reach for the knife,
Alone I cut my wrists just a tiny bit deeper,
Alone I feel the pain.
Alone I think about slicing pictures,
Alone I experience my emptiness,
Alone I cry for all Iâ€™ve lost,
Alone I reach for the knife,
Alone I cut nice drawings for all of those who want to watch,
Alone I feel the pain.
Alone I think about finishing it all,
Alone I experience a new kind of numb feeling take over me,
Alone I cry for all thatâ€™s been and never will be again,
Alone I reach for the knife,
Alone I cut through the vein,
Alone I no longer feel the pain.
my name is heather im 22 years old and im tired of living. i smile and laugh in a crowd and secretly plan my demise. i dont have the normal reasons why people want to die (if there are normal reasons) im attractive people say. i am a college student and i have a bf. but im just so tired of existing. i fantasize about death almost everyday. im alone in a crowded room, and i cant handle the stress of my past anymore. I plan on overdosing in a forest its a nature center that has trails preston would be so proud lol. but i want candles,all my poetry and drawings surrounding me im making a black flowy lace dress ,wearing red lipstick and a video tape explaining everything so people arent confused and can get over it a couple days after. (ikr its a bit ridiculous i owe them an explanation when no one gives a shit but hey i can follow one more rule i suppose.) i cant wait for my fate. but until then i will continue to smile and pretend like nothing is going on. dont ask dont tell the story of my life.
I guess I should start with a statement of “I know that I”m a really lucky person, and life, while not perfect, had been nice to me.” I am born in a really developed country, and have so many benefits that many other countries doesn’t have. I am gifted and loved by god in many ways (learned how to read a language through watching TV, drawings that had won numerous awards and got me a 60,000 scholarship money, performed dance for the Winter Olympics, top three in my school, an hourglass figure, decent face, and healthy body with no mutations…etc.) But I don’t see a point in living.Â There’s really no point in life if you think about it, at least to me. You are born, then raised, trying to study hard in order to get a good job. Get into a relationship(s), get married, and then have a baby to torture yourself. Then raise your child, make them study hard to get a good job, and see them get into a relationship(s), and then get married. Maybe there will be some other things that will happen, but in the end, you die. And going through this gives you both happiness and sadness, but happiness is short, while sadness lasts. I don’t see a point going through this cycle. All I get is memories full of sadness. I kept trying hard to study hard and do well, but at the same time I feel like there’s no point. All I’m doing is to make myself sad. While it is true that I feel happy and satisfied for a while, most of the time I’m depressed. There’s no hope (my field is really competitive and even though I’m the top of my class, I know my depressive and negative emotions will make me fail in work), and I don’t know why I’m still trying to live while I’m so unhappy about life. There is no point in living, and I want to die. I don’t feel the need to go through life’s cycle and continue to be sad. That’s the main reason.
Here’s some more reasons…
Even though I am in such a position where many would probably be envious, life is fair too. I really can’t social, and I see world so differently from other people. I have a lot of “acquaintance friends” but no close ones. I guess it’s just because I’ve experienced too many betrayals and I can’t trust anyone. My family life is really terrible, and even though I have so many other good areas, people seem to stop liking me once they hear me talking about my negative experiences. Or…maybe I just can’t trust them because I’ve been raped…by my cousin. He told me that it’s a game, and even though he didn’t get into it completely, he crushed a part of my innocence. What’s more is what my mom said. She told me to hide what happened, and there’s really nothing she could do, as she claimed.
And I have a really low self-esteem (it may not seem so to you, but I know I am). I feel incompetent regardless of my success. I would always compare to others and make myself sad. And I really hate myself. I guess my mom’s criticism played a part to it. My mom always seemed unhappy about my existence. I think she doesn’t really like me, and thinks that I’m shouldn’t be here. She told me a lot of times that she would have divorced with my dad if I wasn’t born. She always complained how I’m fat and short, and how I’m spending a lot of money. I hate how my thighs are so big, how I’m still not good enough, how I don’t work hard enough, how I harm the world. I hate how my existence is causing harm to mother nature. I feel like I’m born to kill our world. I’ve steal from stores, used a lot of plastic bottles and bags, and created a lot of trash. I hate how my existence is not making the world and my parents better. I don’t know how to describe this hatred in myself , and I would always find ways to torture myself.
I don’t want to deal with it anymore. Life sucks, and life is pointless.
hi there, im a girl
and i am currently suicidal.
everyday i wake up, and try to think of three reasons to live, i only ever think of one. My friends, even though none of my friends know im like this, no one knows (except for my sister and i will explain that later), they are literally the only reason i keep on living because i love seeing them everyday, those four people being the only ones who can make me smile. I have a feeling one of them is like me, but i haven’t got the nerve to ask. I told one of them about my mother, i regretted it instantly, But thats another story entirely.
sometimes, i truly feel like killing myself, i have tried…and failed. My sister found me, I thought I had overdosed enough on the sleeping tablets, turns out they were able to pump my stomach…. After that i told my sister it was ‘just a phase’ she believed me.
I have these drawings, they make up my diary. A bunch of swirley shapes with hidden letters only i can read and see. I just draw one to let out all my feelings and hope every-time that they never return, I have this theory that If i look at my drawing a week later and I cant find the words, the thoughts are gone. Its only happened once, and I started writing last year.
I cut, i try to make them not as obvious because I have school 5 days a week, usually i just do three and continuously re-break the skin… that seems to work well….
It usually gets to the point where my emotional pain outweighs the physical. I guess that just makes the deed easier though right?
Some people question cutting, that is bad for you… but its good if its a way for you to keep from ending your life all together right? Well thats how I justify it anyways…. im not even sure if anyone will read this, but i just need a place where there is a chance someone will hear me out, without being scared of me
“Doctor: What are you doing here, honey? You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets.
Cecilia: Obviously, Doctor, you’ve never been a 13-year-old girl. ”
– The Virgin Suicides
I just had one, simply because someone else posted something moronic on their facebook. Some bible quote:
My thoughts were like this; that is right, I am trash, I am going to be trodden upon, because I have no savour, and I can’t fight for myself, I’m horrible and pathetic and damaged, with no morals, no motivation, no drive.
Its like pearls before swine, and I am swine. A nothing, a pig, a ghost already dead just walking around in a bag of flesh. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror, because I can see my own cowardly trembling.
Maybe its all true, but I told myself, there is no need to panic, if my karma is to be so, and there isn’t anything I can do about it, then what am I worried about?
I worry about doing the right thing often.
If there were a chance for me to be alive again, and I had to risk everything to be alive again, could I do it? Could I run away from what seems to be a useless and empty life?
But I am a coward, I can’t do it and I need others But I am surrounded by people who don’t see the real m at all. All they see is a broken thing. I used to be an artist, with hundreds of drawings and paintings. I haven’t been able to finish anythingÂ for years.
In the meantime, my sisters, who have always had things easier than me, have absolutely no love for me, the broken one. I am the oldest, and yet, all of my younger siblings have more friends and more money than me. I am really truly a broken thing.
I have no one to support me except for what I have right here.. But am I supposed to let others control my life? Or Aa I supposed to break free and I’m not seeing the slow evil that I am surrounded by? I lost my soul, it left my body, I think when I was about 10 years old. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to at all, but I see it in every aspect of my life, a sad, slow descent into nothingness. . .
I’m 26 now. . .
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