I’ve been thinking. Ive grown up thinking. But, im not thinking normally anymore. Suicidally, now. Sometimes I’ve thought about the reactions of family members seeing my body hung up, my body on the floor that has fallen feet above ground. Would they miss me? Be ashamed? Hate me, even after death? I’ve thought that death was an answer, an escape to problems that felt like they couldn’t be solved. I’ve hated myself. Hated myself the first day I’ve heard those nasty words spill out their mouths. I can’t control my feelings anymore. I think I’ve bottled them up for too long. I can’t handle anything rude about me anymore. Can’t take jokes anymore without trying not to cry. All those visits to Miss Caba’s office in Katz didn’t help either. Despite how much I loved her, even she couldn’t help. Cutting myself doesn’t help, even despite the slight relief it gives me. I don’t think it will ever be enough. I’ve drawn my feelings before. How is that supposed to help? It never does. I can’t talk to anyone about it, about this. this, this feeling. No one gets it, and they NEVER will. I’ll be labeled weird, insane, unstable, crazy. And those words coming from the ones I’ve loved since birth, hurts. Hearing people you love say words like that, even if it IS the truth. Those cruel words escaping their lips without a care in the world. And the audacity to ask why I’m crying after they’ve said them. After they’ve verbally stabbed me in the heart millions of times on repeat, over and over, stab after stab, blood spilled over and over again. They ask why I’m crying? To suck it up? To STOP, crying? The truth is, I can’t. I can’t stop crying. The tears pour, and pour, drip after drip. Like a broken faucet that won’t stop leaking. A punctured heart that drips each day of blood. The tears roll down my cheeks uncontrollably, unable to be stopped. Like a bottle bursting after so much pressure. And I can’t express this with words, only through letters arranged together in a digital diary. A temporary escape to the world around me. It’s childish I know, being such a baby. But I can’t help it. Sometimes, I want to die. — SL.