why is it that suicide used to be an idea- a fantastical escapist fantasy or a desperate last resort that I think about only when life seemed too much to bear or I as in deep shit. I started cutting at 10, had my first suicide attempt at 12, stopped cutting at 14 and had my last attempt five months ago but it definately asn't whole-hearted. actually attempting suicide and going to the trouble of planning it seems like such a momentous task with unclear results- one that could go wrong so easily- it's amazing how I can't even end my own life successfully. But still, suicide stopped being something i only thought of hen i was crazy desperate but an ever-present notion that i clung on to, that my thought would go back to at any time of the day, that i just anted to cral up with and snuggle at night, it became a warm being I found comfort in. I can't connect with humans, I feel like im going through some premature midlife crisis at seventeen, i cant fix my hair or put on clothes or go running or paint anymore. I hate my family so much, they are so insufferably screed up, so impossible to speak to, and if i even think about vocalising my depression they'll deny me the chance to go study abroad. I have no freedom, I have stopped anted to ask for it. Everything seems like an exhausting task, and hen others wrong me it is alays me who apologizes and in that small act i lose more and more of my feeling of self-worth. I fuck nameless men and hen they try to call me back i suddenly hate them. I am so passive. I really really want to die.