This is probably too long to maintain anyone’s concentration. I’ve stared at this page for some time now. To be able to put my pain down in words feels like an impossible task. I know that I won’t be able to do my feelings justice. I’ve returned, yet again, to the knowledge that my life is futile and that suicide IS rational. My life and everyday occurrences seem to reinforce this notion. All I want is to so desperately live, to be happy; but thinking and breathing is too painful, almost excruciating. I feel I will NEVER be able to live, therefore what is the point? I’m so incredibly hurt and upset. I want my mother to come and console me; I fucking need her to hug me! I need her to hold me and whisper the soft words that things will be alright. I need to really know that she will support me, and that in her eyes, I am a great person. I will never have that though. And that truth is heartbreaking. I feel ashamed that I am 20 years of age and I still desire so intensely to be looked after and nurtured, to be provided with that security a parent can provide. I can’t cope with this at all. When I was a child I was constantly outside playing, to escape the intense and volatile atmosphere at home. I hated being at home at times, although that may be an understatement. Of course, there were some times, I laughed at home, felt happy, but the dire inconsistency in parenting has had such a detrimental impact on my personality and internal stability. I feel the hell far outweighs the happiness. It hurts so much to want to be able to re-write my childhood, to erase the memories and replace them with something happy. When I went to my friend’s homes, I longed to have a life like theirs. I dreamt at night that my teacher would take me home and look after me. Understand that I was only 10 years of age when I felt this way. I recall once writing “HELP” on my window with deodorant for the world to see. I wanted someone to notice my hell. Myself and my younger sister spent time in foster care on some occasions whilst growing up, it was a VERY TEMPORARY respite from the misery and torment that was inflicted upon us at home. My mum would go into explicit detail about my dad raping me, this is something that has been deeply ingrained in me since a young age. My little mind couldn’t even fully comprehend what she was saying, yet she persisted to inform me of this over the years. This has resulted in building a divide between me and my dad, both physically and emotionally. I don’t want to make them sound like bad parents, because they were able to provide me with something otherwise I wouldn’t be here today, but my dads drug addiction and my mums illness, well they have both contributed to my life in a significantly negative way. I hold so much fury towards them because of this. My mum was very cold to me when I was growing up. Sometimes I would shout “mum, come” and she would express her rage with me, telling me that I was dirty etc. Only do I now see the connection between come and cum, this is what made her so angry. There was an extreme role reversal, this eats at me inside, the paradoxical feelings are something I can’t tolerate. I love her, she is my mum, I want to look after her, but at the same time I couldn’t hate her more. I once took a knife to her throat, screaming and raging with pure ferocity. I could never turn to her in time of troubles, she would present me with delusions, and when presented with utter sorrow and despair, she would laugh. I went to visit her ever day when she was in hospital on a section once. She was at the forefront of my mind. I was overwhelmed with worries. She was too ill to acknowledge me though. She would accuse me of smashing her knees in with hammers, travelling abroad for weeks after ‘drugging’ her, sleeping around with men and fucking dogs. DOGS, animals! So much of her talk I couldn’t even understand. It was all delusions. She couldn’t look after me. So am I to feel guilty? Or am I meant to accept she just wasn’t capable of looking after me? It’s not just a ‘just’ though. Every single human needs parenting. I see that small little me and it makes me cry. It makes me cry that she was subjected to so much shit and I can’t do anything to change that. I remember once, being infuriated with my mother for talking her ‘stupidness’ – i.e delusions – and then my dad being angry for me being upset. Feelings weren’t really accepted in my household. He hit me many times with the belt for expressing my emotions. One memory that haunts me, is a time when I was hit with the belt and I had my mouth wide open with pain yet no sound came out. My mum walked in and saw me, left, and then a few minutes later I found her on the kitchen floor shaking, foam coming out of her mother. My stinking dad wouldn’t even call for the ambulance, I had to! That really rips at my soul. As a result of not having that mother figure, I desired my fathers love and attention instead. I did everthing I could to make him happy. I even thought being successful at football would make him happy and proud of me, sadly I was wrong. So many times I remember him telling me I was “just as bad as your mother.” He threatened me on numerous occasions to get “rid of you” and that the social services would come and take my “arse” I was able to maintain a healthy life I guess, while I had my school and education, sports and friendships, which supported me and built up my sense of self. As a result of really trying to understand what has gone on, it has become apparent that the ending of my school years really shook my world. This was a place where I felt like I belonged and was appreciated. As this gradually came to an end, I crumbled even more. It was the first time I ever consider myself to have been depressed. Slowly over the years I have isolated myself from the world. Literally. I have witnessed the amount of friends I have decrease significantly. I don’t feel I have anyone to turn to. I have one great friend I recently made online but I feel certain I will do something wrong and that will come to an end, too. I directed all my fury towards my body, hacking away at my arms or legs until I felt ‘satisfied’ with the damage. In a twisted way, it was the only thing that would console me. I have never learnt to regulate my emotions. With each year that has gone by, the attacks on my body have increased in severity. I feel like a shell of my former self. I don’t even know who I am. Maybe that is partly why I have destroyed my body so much, because I am so angry that I can’t be who I once was. I feel like it has all been taken away from me. I’ve seen my friends leave me over the years, starting the real journey of their lives, whilst I’m left here to slowly decay. I don’t know if I can actually carry on with all of this. With my life. I don’t want another 60 years of this crap, I really don’t.