So here I am again, covered by this darkness. I feel empty inside, as if the darkness doesn’t just cover me, its part of me. I’ve been clean since before Christmas, deprived from the rush, but tonight I felt the urge so intense that I couldn’t control myself. Today I took farewell of my grandmother; she died almost a month ago as a result of her Alzheimer. It was a very beautiful ceremony, in a chapel located on a hillside in the outskirts of Gothenburg. My grandfather cried, mourning the loss of his wife. My father cried, mourning the loss of his mother. My cousins cried, mourning the loss of their grandmother. I didn’t cry, I couldn’t cry. I felt so coldhearted, so inhuman at that moment when I realized that no tears would come. “Is my heart already this rotten? Is my soul really this faint?” I could not stop my thoughts at this point, and started cursing myself right there in front of my dead grandmother and in front of God. I really wished that it was my body lying in that coffin, that I was attending my own funeral, but that there’d be no family members there mourning me. Tonight, when all had gone to hell and my parents had gone to bed, I sought out my beloved tool and started to work on my reddish, scarred patch of skin which had not bled for over a week. It felt so good to see the red liquid pour out in droplets, forming pools on my arm only to stream down and stain the white paper. My mind was clear again, no thoughts, nothing but the sting. 10, 12, 15, 20, stop. STOP! At the peak of the rush, I felt pure. But I could not fall asleep afterwards, like I usually can. The sting went away, leaving me with a feeling of failure and anger. I didn’t achieve what I wanted, I didn’t get the pulsating throb in my arm like I use too; rocking me to sleep in the peaceful high. “Silly crap, will salt do the fucking trick?” I feel useless at this point, and I don’t feel in control anymore, all I can think about is the final cut. The last incision that will bring me to the end. I want it to end, now, not tomorrow, not the day after, NOW! I’m sick of these feelings of stupidity and worthlessness; and most of all the guilt. The guilt I feel for my wish to die is worst of all I think, I would be the fourth suicide in my family since 1948, and the second in my school this year. I don’t dare to think about the pain I would cause my family and friends, the hate I would generate in my father. But I can no longer stand life itself, I need my exit, I need my turn to leave this godforsaken piece of rock we call planet Earth. I am not worthy this life, this chance at existence, and I don’t want it at all. If I could choose between life, or cancer and death, I would choose death every day of the week. Because then it would be out of my hands, out of my control, and I would not be blamed for my death. I don’t know how long I will be able to cope, how long I will have the strength to keep on fighting. I hope that therapy will help me to become strong and give me some self-confidence, so I can be able to live with myself. Because that is the problem really, I don’t think it matters much how many friends I have or how many people love me; If I can’t live with myself, if I can’t bear to be me, then what can I do?