I hate posting here. I don't know why. There's a large part of me that hates reaching out for advice, but another part of me that knows when I should. I'm half aware that I'm not making any sense, but maybe I don't care. Maybe that's how I got where I am right now. In the past few weeks, I've just stopped caring. I've been thinking about ending it all the past three or so days. The only reason I haven't tried is because one time, when I wasn't feeling this way, I got smart and hid my "choice" from me, if you will. Having a bad memory, I cannot remember where I put it. That doesn't stop my mind from trying to think of other ways, though. There was once a time when I felt sad, angry, broken. I hated it. I hated it with every fiber of my being. But it was much better than this. For today, now, in this moment, there's nothing. There's no fear, no sorrow, no anger - only a deep, bleak, nothing. I don't know how long it will last and maybe I don't care. Maybe it's better than being sad. Maybe it's better than being angry at everyone and everything. Maybe it's better than that wanna-be happiness that visits me at least once every two months. I've felt this way for as long as I can remember. I was diagnosed with depression in middle school... I was eleven years old. And for the past decade, I've spent my life faking it. Faking a smile, faking a laugh, faking interest in social situations. And I grew tired of it. I grew exhausted. When I was in high school, I never imagined I'd be this exhausted at only 20 years old. Oh, how young and stupid I was. I don't even know what I want. Advice? Perhaps. Someone to give me three good reasons to hang on? Maybe. Someone to talk to so I can trudge through this bleak nothingness? Likely. I'm not even sure any more. Mostly, I'm just reaching out for help because I've been unable to find it anywhere else. It's strange when I reach this suicidal place because everything... the good and the bad... they slowly stop mattering.