I can't sit here and cut myself as an alternative for killing myself anymore. Then again, if I talk to people and be completely honest about my feelings, I'll just be threatened or coerced into being hospitalized. Life and death both seem like terrible choices. If I kill myself, I'll never receive the love, affection, and the attention that I've wanted for what feels like an eternity. If I continue living, I'll just prolong the everlasting pain. Anyway, I'll attempt to be clear about how I got to being suicidal. I've never been happy. I don't even think true happiness exists and I'm not just saying that. I'm an atheist, and I'm nihilistic (in the sense that life has no intrinsic meaning). If you're reading this and you're religious and/or you believe true happiness exists, I don't mean to offend you or challenge your happiness; I'm just listing a reason as to why I'm where I'm at. Anyway, throughout school I've never made a friend, even though I longed for friends. Part of it was because I'm shy and I might have been anti-social during the years preceding middle school. My parents also picked my clothes and combed my hair during that time, and I wore glasses on top of that so that alone is probably why I don't recall anyone being eager to be my friend. Well, at least after elementary school I did my hair and picked my clothes, but I was still reluctant to make friends. It was more than just being shy, or having social anxiety (possibly social anxiety disorder). Growing up in a homophobic environment, I was afraid that if I let anyone get close to me, I would have to be honest and tell them that I'm bisexual and be rejected and possibly outed. Therefore, I avoided becoming more than just acquaintances with people. Also, I was bullied twice, once in 6th grade and again in 9th. Both times I waited several months before finally breaking down in front of my parents. I had to tell my administrator everything and he suspended my bully for a week or two. Of course, I was teased about snitching and people made fun of me behind my back, but it stopped after freshman year. Anyway, having been through all of that. I can argue that I've always dealt with suicidal thoughts and had a mild to moderate form of depression. It wasn't until fall semester of my freshman year of college that my depression became severe. I thought it couldn't get worse after having scoliosis surgery and retaining some flaws on top of being friendless and lonely. Nope. I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes on November 2013. I was in the ER because I was throwing up very frequently and couldn't walk unassisted; my blood-sugar level was 896 mg/dL. Why didn't I die? Anyway, from that point I took my self-hatred to another level. In March 2014 my Xbox Live friend told me that he's been having suicidal thoughts, and after hours of texting he revealed that he's depressed because he's gay. I was finally able to relate to someone. After confirming that he's secretive about his sexual orientation, I told him mine without hesitation. From there we just constantly texted each other. We were infatuated with each other and overly sentimental. It was all temporary as one would expect. His suicidal tendencies got to me and enhanced my depression. We stated talking a lot less, and I began to feel lonely again. July 3rd or 4th that year I got drunk and suddenly thought that I need to punish myself for forgetting my insulin and making my sister drive back home to pick it up. I punched myself repeatedly that night, and thus I did that routinely as punishment for simply being. My self-harm methods gradually developed since then. I'd expand on them but I'm not sure that this is the right thread to do it. I didn't quite keep it a secret. Everyone eventually caught on. Since I was unable to focus on my studies due to my severe depression, and because I was failing my classes, I decided to drop my classes before the drop deadline and just stay home. My parents felt helpless and eventually resorted to deceiving me into seeing a psychiatrist. I chose to talk to her anyway. Basically, I confirmed that if she were to offer me money and transportation to get the supplies needed to end my life, I'd accept. The psychiatrist told my parents that I cannot go home, and I was hospitalized for the next two weeks. My first experience as an inpatient was ultimately a pleasant one. I eventually came out in group therapy and told my entire story; everyone was cool. I don't mind telling people my sexual orientation when it's necessary nowadays; I'm even proud of it. I also gained a few friends out of my stay, which is what I've always wanted. I even felt better about myself because of the compliments that I received; I felt more attractive. The week following my discharge, I was so restless, anxious, and excited because I finally have friends that live near me. I hung out once every week or every other week, but every time I came home, I felt like hurting myself. I felt like my happiness from having friends was only temporary because I'd come back home to solitude, no occupation, and no reason to live. I didn't and still don't work because I'm terrified of talking to people, and if someone was mean to me, I don't know how I'd handle it, especially in my current state. I also wouldn't want to rely on someone driving me to work, since I don't drive because I'm also terrified of driving. So a couple of months after being discharged from the hospital I progressed into becoming suicidal again. My second experience as an inpatient was an utter waste of time and scarred me from ever going back. I was admitted in early January 2015 and stayed for another two weeks. I self-harmed several times and was placed on one-to-one supervision after making a complete mess. As much as I hate lying, I had to lie about how I was feeling to be released from supervision and ultimately the hospital. I initially felt resolve to stop self-harming and get better solely because I didn't want to be an inpatient again. My mindset completely deviated after a few days. I self-harmed not only as a coping mechanism, but as a hobby. I stopped when it became obvious to my parents because I wasn't careful and organized and my dad threatened to take me to the hospital if I harmed myself again. Initially I just devolved my methods. Recently I started cutting again, but only when I think it's necessary. I also chose to stop taking my depression medication and stop seeing my psychiatrist because it's a waste. Now that I'm done explaining significant events in my life that lead up to my current state, I'll get to the point. I have no passion nor do I desire to find one. I've accepted my suicidal thoughts, and I feel that I identify with being suicidal, yet I haven't decided to kill myself. I'm exploring both options of life and death before I make a decision. My only desires are unrealistic and quite honestly pathetic. I fanboy over a group of YouTubers, who I've watched during my time of suffering, and desire to be closer to them. Not only that, I predominantly obsess over one of them because I'm attracted to him. I watch these guys every day and it's toxic. I don't know why this had to happen, but it's seriously the one thing that's preventing me from killing myself. Why? Well, this took me 6 hours to write. I guess it was worth it because I was relieved while I was writing it. It's almost 11 AM, so I guess I'll try sleep before I'm not relieved anymore. If you read this far and didn't skim through it, thank you.