I've always dreamed of slicing open my arm because it bleeds the most, and I love seeing the blood, but then people would see it and the shit would hit the fan. But I've found other places that can be concealed and still draw large amounts of blood. So here I am, typing as my depression from yesterday builds up with the depression from today, the tetras pieces that keep accumulating until finally there's no more space left and the screen flashes and goes crazy. Game over. I cannot shake these feelings of hopelessness and isolation, and this depression is nameless, I cannot attach it to any reason. And these words are worthless, they hold no meaning to anyone but myself, and so once I release them out into the world they will spontaneously combust like a virus that is exposed to oxygen once it crosses the threshold of its host's exit and leaves the body. My struggle means nothing to outsiders, no one cares. The initial shaking has subsided to a dull, constant trembling that settles in my bones. But I still feel like puking my guts out. Maybe it's the head ache that's making me nauseous. I really don't know. I should probably go upstairs and lie down but that would mean having to listen to my parents yell, and then I'll want to see my own blood. Seeing that raw skin exposed makes me feel like matters are not out of my hands; it's right there, the evidence that I'm in control, and the throbbing of each wound exercising its own heart beat makes me feel like my hands are not so incapacitated after all. And then there's the blood. I love seeing the blood. It's probably a prerequisite of wanting to see myself dead, like a reenactment of my most brutal self destructive feelings. But then I hate myself even more after the fact, so I will try my damndest not to cut. Even though I don't really try anymore because I don't even care if I cut. I stopped making a real effort. So it just might happen. In fact I already have a knife and a shard of glass ready. This is not a depressive episode where I have the luxury of venting through tears. Instead, my body takes out the depression on itself in other ways. The dreaded physical symptoms that only arrive on your worst days but make up for the long times that they are away. Fatigue, migraine, nausea, a general worn out feeling, feeling sick, and miserable. And I refuse, I staunchly refuse to unload this pain onto other people. This depression is like matter: it cannot be created or destroyed, but simply changes form and is transferred to other receivers. In order for me to unload some of this baggage, I would have to hand it over to someone else. And then the stress of dealing with a depressed, suicidal person would cause someone I love, a friend, unnecessary grief. No more people have to suffer because of me. So I will meet this challenge on my own. But I just want to go to bed and not wake up.