When

When I do it...

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I have had my death planned out since the age of 12.

 

I will kill myself a little after midnight.  By that time no one else in my house will be awake, only me.  No one will check up on me until half past two the next afternoon, this should give me plenty of time.

 

I will slit my wrists, the right way using the biggest knife from the kitchen, this should pose no difficulty, I have after all been cutting myself for half a decade now, I am used to the pain.  The delicious sensation of cold metal slicing into my flesh and the warm trickle of blood that follows.

 

I will leave a note, this much I am sure of.  Some days I plan the note to only say the word “sorry”, other days I explain to my mother that this is not her fault, yet other days I plan to explain that I just can’t anymore, can’t go on living.

 

I have drafted many such notes.

 

I don’t know why I feel this way, my childhood wasn’t particularly bad, I wasn’t abused or anything and this makes me feel worse as it feels as though there is no reason for me to feel the way I do.

 

I don’t think “if I kill myself” it has always been a matter of “when”.

 

I have tried to get help, asked so many people, told them about my cutting, my wish to end my life.

 

I hardly ever cry anymore but I still feel so much pain, my life is a silent scream.

 

“Help me! Stop me! Ask if I am ok”.

 

No one hears.

 

When I told my mother this, not all of it but let her know at least a little of what I feel.  She cried, she near screamed, she practically called me crazy.

 

So I pretend to be happy, or at the very least content.

 

I can’t talk to her.

 

I can’t talk to anyone at all.