Just A Disclaimer

To anyone reading –


This is simply a disclaimer. It’s going to be long. It’s going to be depressing as fuck. And I assume it’s only very close friends reading this, so it’s going to say a lot about me that they probably don’t even know yet. So if you don’t have the time, don’t care, or if afterwards, you just don’t want to be involved with me anymore, it’s fine. I don’t mind. Click the ‘x’. Thanks for reading this first part, at least.


Now, if you somehow got past that first part, then here. There’s not really a “start” or “end”. There’s just a point where things started to happen and then everything up until now. I self harm. I don’t say “I used to” because the last time I cut myself was in April of 2015 and I doubt that I’m going to fucking stop there lol. I’ve been wanting to self harm for the past month and I’ve only told (for the sake of this being public I’m only going to use initials) G.K. and E.L.  If I remember, the first time I cut was in 3rd or 4th grade. As of now (August 18th, 2015), I’m 14 years old. That’s about 7 years since the first time I remember being depressed. When I was in 4th grade I was /insane/. Had my share of mental breakdowns, and I still do. The only difference is that now I usually don’t have them in public. One day, I was writing during recess. A teacher came up and asked me what I was up to. I wrote really depressing shit (and I still do) like poetry and stuff. I had the notebook on my lap and I realized she was looking it over before I clutched it to my chest and then I knew I was fucked. Later that day, I was called into a conference room in the office. My mom was there, some teachers, and my counselor and principal. They asked me all sorts of questions. “Have you hurt yourself?” “Has anyone in your family abused you?” “Has your brother ever done anything sexual to you?” This might’ve been where my anxiety started developing. I remember crying because no one would just leave me alone and let me be the little depressed shit I was in my own little depressed bubble. No, they just had to do this shit, with my mom there, make me feel even shittier, and then have all my friends ask what was up for like the next week. About two weeks later, I was described an anti-depressant. Don’t know what it was, don’t care what it was. Pills suck, dude. Okay? Let me just say that now. They fucking suck. I felt artificial. I felt like something was wrong with me and I needed to be “fixed”. And I felt like no one cared until /authority/ was brought into the situation. And then the therapists came. And I lost track of how many I’ve gone through. 10? 20? The same fucking questions. The same fucing exercises. The same fucking “therapy”. No, I don’t fucking know how long I’ve wanted to die. Yes, I do fucking hate people. No, I don’t fucking want to be here. And yes, I do still want to fucking die. Moving on, in 6th grade (I’m just gonna start getting straight to the point), I too my second attempt at suicide. The first attempt isn’t really something worth discussion. I swallowed about 80 pills of acetaminophen (Tylenol pretty much). I swallowed them one by one as I texted my friend J.L. telling him I wouldn’t be at school in the morning and that I was sorry. The thing that broke my straw was a kid who I had liked since the 2nd grade and he had texted me “Okay” when I said I wanted to kill myself and that I hated him. To be clear, no I didn’t try to kill myself over a boy. I was in a school full of delinquents and I knew no one. I had a bad relationship with my family. I missed my friends from ES. I had recently lost a guy who had influenced me deeply and was pretty much the only fucking thing preventing me from going A-wall and flipping my shit. And then his sister told him how I was a piece of shit person because I treated him like shit and took out my personal issues on him and he knew she was right so he trashed me. To this day, I still don’t blame him. I’ve mended the relationship with him, but we still don’t talk. Anyways, a few weeks after N.A. had unfriended me, I started losing myself. It was like 2 weeks before school was out. And I was failing. I didn’t want to try. I didn’t care. I hated life. The only good thing on my records were my test scores. So, back to me about to attempt suicide. J.L. kept trying to stop me. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. Let me just say that I love this person to death because he saved my life. He told his mom (it was like 2 am) and they called the school, got my info, and sent police and paramedics to my house. Now here’s the shitty part. About 10 minutes later, I was still swallowing these pills. I was about to pass out. My dad bursts through the door and is like, “WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A COP AT OUR DOOR? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, GIRL? GET OUT THERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW.” So he grabs me off my bed and pills just kinda go everywhere and he shoves me down the hall. I walk out front and I sit down in front of this cop. And he’s asking me questions and eventually I’m just sitting and tilting my head back because I’m like 30 seconds from falling over. I’m only able to like nod and shake my head at this point. And then paramedics arrive and kinda guide me to this ambulance. The guy hands me a bottle of liquid tar and says, “You have to either drink this or get your stomach pumped. Let me be honest, it tastes like shit. And you’re gonna vomit.” I was so spaced out and I was like ‘Lol I’m gonna die anyways, fuck this, I’ll drink it and laugh when I die anyways’. So I drank this fucking liquid tar, and it wasn’t necessarily disgusting, it was just sickeningly sweet and gritty. It was like drinking sugar except it didn’t dissolve and it kinda just sat in the back of my throat. My mom asked for the passcode to my phone and I told her and was like ‘Byeeeeee…’ once they closed the ambulance doors. And we were about to go, and the paramedic was like “Okay, kid. I have to stick an IV in you.” And let me tell you, I was fucking TERRIFIED of needles. Like, I screamed when I had to get shots for 6th grade. But I was so shitfaced that I just laid there and I literally stared as he put in the needle and I laughed and I’m not even sure why. So they drove me to the local Children’s Hospital and they put me in this small room while they tried to figure out if there were any rooms open in the ICU or Emergency units. This lady comes in and is so monotone and asks me like 15 questions and then she gets up and is like “Listen. I don’t think you’re going to make it. You’re vitals are not good. And your body is shutting down. And I really hope you make it, but there’s not a really great chance.” I had my phone and I remember putting on Breathe Me by Sia and just fucking crying my eyes out. My mom comes in and I’m crying and about to tell her what the lady said and then they take me on to a stretcher and transfer me to the ICU and I was like ‘Shit, well sorry, mom.’ And they just take me to a hospital room and they have like 4 nurses in there and 3/4 are sitting next to me snapping and shaking me to make sure I don’t fucking pass out. Then later on, they finally let me sleep. I woke up at like 4 am vomiting a whole bunch of fucking black fucking tar. Like, my teeth were stained black because of this shit. And I vomited my guts out. And it burned. And I cried. And it burned more. Now I’m going to summarize pretty much the rest of my hospital experience in this:

Attempting suicide wasn’t just vomiting every day. It wasn’t just all the fucking needles they stabbed me with (which is why I no longer have a fear of them). It wasn’t just me waking up and looking at my arm which was swollen from my fingertips to my elbow because my IV had slipped out of my vein and fluid inflated my left arm. It wasn’t me wishing I had died when the nurses didn’t know whether to put heat pads or ice packs on my arm. Because they were supposed to put ice packs. And they had heat pads on there for 11 minutes before they figured out they fucked up. It wasn’t me being transferred to a different hospital at 3 am and watching the stars fly by as I laid down in the ambulance. It wasn’t me wanting to kill the doctor who yelled at the best nurse I’ve ever had and telling her she was doing an awful job and all these other things. It wasn’t just me grabbing that same nurse when she was tucking my blankets and crying and asking her to pull my plug and then having her stroke my hair and telling me she was sorry that I didn’t realize how much of a fight I was putting up. It wasn’t me barely being able to fucking get out of bed and walk 6 steps just to take a fucking piss. It wasn’t me being transferred the next day at 3 am to a mental institute. It wasn’t me crying in the shower at 3 am at the mental institute, waking up my roommate, and telling her I was fine when she asked if I was alright even though we were both in a fucking mental institute.

It was me going through all this shit because I’m a depressed kid just looking to cheer others up and give advice that I can’t even follow myself even though it’s helped other people a ton. And it was me scaring everyone who loves me. And it was me doing something that changed me forever. And it was just something that happened. And I can’t change it. I had pills and another therapist after that. The therapist was more like my mom’s girl pal who just occasionally asked me about what really mattered. I fought with my mom every night about taking the pills. My therapist thought this was a sign that I need a larger dose. Eventually, I refused to take them no matter what and my mom would try various ways to give them to me (hiding them in my food, drinks, candy, etc). I stopped seeing that therapist. I stopped taking pills. I’m clean right now.


I was molested in the 7th grade by G.C. Twice. And it’s something that doesn’t have a lot to it. I was with him and he thought it was cool to stick his hand down my pants. I still feel dirty. And I still feel like my innocence was stolen. There was also the handful of men who tried to take me to “have a good time” and getting upset when I told them no.

There’s so many other things that’ve happened. And I can’t talk about them all. This post would be a book. Maybe someday, but for now, no. I still want to self harm at times. I get the urge to commit suicide, but I know it’s not the answer to what I’m going through. I have social anxiety, general anxiety, and severe depression. I was diagnosed at the hospital. I am bisexual. I start high school in 6 days. I have a thousand thoughts running through my mind. I don’t even understand myself. And I know nobody else does either.

To my close friends –

To the ones that knew: Thank you for staying by my side. Thank you for helping me through the worst nights. And thank you for making me laugh every day.

To the ones that didn’t: Well, here it is. If you have any other questions, you know how to reach me. I’m sorry if this made you want to leave my life. I understand, and I’m used to it. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

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