I think I just went through the most surreal, boring month / 30 days of my life. In terms of stuff that happened, then a ton of stuff did. I tried to commit suicide, I obviously failed, it was kind of ridiculous in a twisted way, I'm wired completely against self harming - I could barely bring myself to try, but I went ahead and did so, and it took three attempts in the same night. I don't know how much you can mention without being moderated, but I couldn't cut myself, it turns out our river is only about 3 feet deep, and overdosing on what should've been a lethal dose barely phased me, and I ended up with mild vomiting, and heavy liver poisoning, as well as superficial cuts you can barely see, and very soggy boots and jeans. Now it just feels like i'm totally trapped alive. Like my body is a prison but I lack the willpower, or ideas (practical) to end it. I can't get hold of any dangerous drugs, because of the Afghanistan war making them pretty much unobtainable. The town I live in might as well be one giant bungalow, and the river, as I said, is about 3 feet deep. I spend my time thinking of methods to kill myself, playing games and watching terrible movies. I left university, I don't know anyone else around here, cause they're all at uni, and I don't want to meet anyone either, because I'm so suicidal, it'd just be pointless. So it's pretty boring, but not as boring as the hospital I ended up at for four days, and then then psychiatric ward I was at for two weeks, before I ran away, on account of having nothing to do there, and now ironically, I have just as little to do here. Also, my Dad is now no longer speaking to me, my sister barely calls and my mum isn't much better though I guess she's trying, though today she found a girl I knew at university's underwear, which my dad had packed form my room along with all my shit, so I guess that didn't help. I read a lot, and write a little, but it always ends up on the same topic. I guess how I feel right now is best summed up by Schopenhauer, "Perhaps there is no man alive who would not have already put an end to his life, if this end had been of a purely negative character, a sudden stoppage of existence. There is something positive about it; it is the destruction of the body; and a man shrinks from that, because his body is the manifestation of the will to live." I want to die, but when it comes to it, I'm finding I'm a bit of a coward, I guess it's a natural response. I can't stand the tedious, slow, uncaring mental health process we have here, it's about the unhealthiest thing possible. They just talk in circles, you see them once a week for thirty minutes, and then misdiagnose you with some shit which sounded completely wrong. They took two weeks to decide I might, just maybe, possibly, perhaps have 'adjustment disorder?' to university. Like that sums up the last ten years of suffering through whatever this is. So I guess nothing really changed, or at least it feels like that. I've blown up a land mine in my social and family life, but all that's happened is I sit around, staring at screens, walls, mirrors, wondering what the hell to do, and trying to plan something, because I can't keep this up for much longer, and the only reason I'm even trying is my family's sake. The worst bit I guess is before I didn't tell anyone because I knew they'd react like this, and when they found out they assured me I was wrong, but I guess the truth comes out. I've always been good at guessing how people would react, but now I feel even more isolated, and if I try and raise the subject, they either rail off (Dad), ignore me (Sis) or run away from it (Mum).