It's something that is well known. So many people do it everyday. It's something that some of us think about, it's something some of us attempt, and some of us succeed at it. It's probably not the best thing, but it happens. Sometimes life happens too fast, or sometimes it seems to be unbearable and we think that our best way is to just give up.
Death seems like such a sweet release sometimes. There is no pain, nothing to worry about, there is only serene beauty, depending on what you believe in. There is so much about life that you would want to just not want to live anymore. There are things like family problems, problems at school, problems with friends, things aren't going the way that you want them to go. There are so many reason's that one would want to give up.
I am one of those people who tried to kill myself. I don't want to sugar coat it. I wanted to take my own life, I wanted to make the world better by not being here. There is no way that I can put it to make it sound nice. There is nothing nice about wanting to fore fit your life.
The first time that I tried I was in middle school. My first thoughts started when I was young. It was the end of my 7th grade year, there was so much going on with me. Yes I had a good amount of friends, I had a big family, but there were still the things that had seemed to over run that. I was still getting made fun of in school. There were whispers of things behind me behind my back, mean vile things. At first I tried to ignore it and it worked. I started to stand up for myself, if that's what you could call it. I would yell at people for saying things about me, but that didn't stop them from keeping up the stream of hateful words that made me feel as though I was not meant to live. At first they were just thoughts. I would think "what if I killed myself, I don't think that anyone would even notice let alone care if I was gone. In fact I might be doing everyone a favor. They won't have to care about what I am doing." I even went to the extent of writing a suicide note that I would leave for my family when I did it. One of my brothers found it once, thank God he couldn't read. I took it from him and I burnt it. Then I started cutting. I did it in places that no one would see. I didn't want anyone to know. Some nights my little brother would come lay with me at night and I would cry on his little shoulder and tell him the horrid things that I was planning to do. Thank the heavens he had no clue what I was talking about. But one night as I was crying on his little shoulder, holding him close to me so that I would never forget him, he did something that changed my mind. He looked up me with the innocent eyes of a toddler and he put his little hand on my cheek and he said to me "Don't cry, Mon-ca, it will be OK." And then he kissed my cheek. At that point I knew that I couldn't leave him. My little bear would need me one day, to help him trough something like he'd just helped me.
Life after that was fine. I wont say that it was always rainbows and sunshine because it wasn't. I still fought with my sisters and my mom and my brothers, even fought with my dad a few times. I still thought that my family hated me but I pushed past all that and I kept going forward.
Then at the end of my freshman I moved to Oregon and that started a whole new depression for me. My grandmother tried to get me to hate my family. She despised me talking to my family, she hated when she knew that I was even thinking about my family. But it wasn't my whole family that she wanted me to hate. Just my mother and my sisters. She wanted me to worship the ground that my aunt walked on. She would tell me that my mother said how much of a little bitch that I was and that my mom was happy that I was gone. And after a while I started to believe it. I mean why would anyone care so much about me. I am nothing, there is nothing special about me. So I believed it. And then the thoughts came back to me. I guess that they were never really gone they just were cover, buried under everything else. I started cutting again my junior year. I always wore sweaters no matter what so no one would notice the cuts on my arm. To this day you can still see some of the scars. But then at one point in my senior year I went for it. I took a bunch of pills. I figured it wasn't worth life anymore. I had put in enough work and nothing was working out for me. It obviously didn't work seeing as how I am alive to write this. I guess I didn't take enough. I'd thought about trying it again, after it didn't work. Then one day I found some friends who are now my best friends, they make sure that I don't reach that breaking point again. Then later on that year I got on facebook and I found my mommy. And we were talking and my mom said to me "I love you, baby girl. No matter what. You are my child and I will love you always." That's when I knew that my mother never hated me, that she would always be there for me. I wont say that after that that I didn't have any suicidal thoughts, because I did. I don't have those thoughts now. I do however have many homicidal thoughts. Though I am not a threat to the world. I find to much joy in helping people but I still can't help but think of the deaths of some people or every person on earth.
Though the thoughts are no longer there, I still have problems believing that anyone can care for me anymore than just the most basic of friendship. I am working on that. I know that my best friend loves me like I am her sister and that she will always be there for me. I'm trying to believe my boyfriend when he says that he actually cares for me. I think I know it, I'm just not willing to accept it. But I at least I know what my problem is and I'm working on it. And I want to do my damnedest to make sure that my story has a happy ending to it.
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