I feel so alone. Even when I’m with other people – I’m always the third wheel. I feel like an annoyance. I’m too afraid to take initiative to any activities and such. I always keep people at an arm’s length. I guess I have a couple of friends, but not any close ones. And it hurts so much. I’m sick and tired of everything. I have very few good experiences. While other teenagers went out and had fun, I sat in my apartment with my mom. Good things almost never happen to me. Every day of the last 5 years, have been about battling anxiety and depression. That’s who I am, that’s what I do. That’s my identity, I know of nothing else. If someone asks me who I am, I simply don’t know how to respond. I don’t even know myself. I almost never do anything fun, I just go through panic attacks, and pain – so I can get “better.” I’m so tired of the mental hospital. I can’t stand the place. Every time I step onto the premises there, I feel the little happiness I have left disappear. But I have no choice. If I refuse to go there I will be taken away from my parents, and my time home is the only time I can somewhat appreciate. I’m sick of fighting. I’ve been fighting for 5 years, that’s almost 1/3 of my life! And what good has it done me? Nothing. Sure, I can walk outside without having a panic attack, I be around people. But yet I have no deep friendships, I haven’t seen most of my family in years, and I still can’t handle school. I don’t care if I can now sit in a café and drink hot chocolate, or go see a movie. I just can’t take it anymore. Every day for 7 years now I have wished that I had the “courage” to commit suicide. But I haven’t been able to do even that. I have wanted to die, but I’ve been too scared of the repercussions if I didn’t succeed. So I kept telling myself “next week, I’ll do it next week – then all of this suffering will be over.” Yet I’ve never tried, because I’ve been too afraid of it failing. For 7 years I have been depressed. Nothing has helped. I don’t want to fight. I’m exhausted; I’ve tried for 5 years, but I am no closer to what I long for. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t go back there, but I can’t refuse. It’s ironic. I feel like I have to die tomorrow, since I’m supposed to go back there on Monday. I can’t go back there, but if I don’t then things will only get worse, and the people who are trying to help me are unintentionally pushing me over the edge. And I hate it, because I sometimes feel happy when I’m home, but I can’t stay here. I just can’t do this anymore – and I guess tomorrow will have to be the day I finally try to escape this miserable life; I just can’t see any other options.