Suicidal

I want to cut. I want to use my razor and glide through my skin with it. Then, I could focus on the physical pain and the bleeding and forget the emotional pain, even if it is just for a moment.

I want to die. I watched a video of this girl slitting her wrists, and, when she was done, she leaned back, eyes closed, and she looked so peaceful. I knew, she was done. The deed was done, and she knew it. She knew that she was finally free. How I envied her in that moment. I wished I could be in her place, finally done with everything.

I cut because I'm stuck. I'm stuck between living and dying. Inside I'm dead; outside I'm living. When it comes to this point, you're only surviving. I want to kill myself, but I can't, for He always stays my hand. So, I cut. I cut because I can't die. I cut with the hope that one day it will kill me, and I hope that that one day would be soon--that that one day would be today. I'm tired of living, scared of dying. No more giving; I'm done trying.

I am my depression. This . . . this ugly body, these scarred arms and legs, is who I am. I never will be anything more. I'm not into people. I'm an introvert--no good at teamwork, best at lying low. I will never be good enough. I just won't. There's no point in even trying. I am not worthy of any good thing. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me.

I am ashamed of every bad decision that I've made, so ashamed, in fact, that I can't even look anyone in the eye and talk about how I'm feeling. Actually, I can't talk about how I'm feeling. I bottle it all up until I feel like I'm going to explode, then I'll cut to release it.