A few things wrong with my life.Mature

Damien

 

I s'pose I should tell you why I'm in Campbell's room, trying to tell him what's wrong with life. There's a lot wrong with life. I'm a fuck up on so many levels that I don't know where I should start. I guess from the beginning?

  • I'm failing nearly everything at school.
  • I'm bisexual. Trust me, where I live, that's a failure.
  • I get bullied relentlessly in school because of my sexuality.
  • Because I get bullied, I self harm. It makes me feel kinda better for a moment.
  • Because I also found out that fighting back tends to make things worse, I started doing weed to stop myself from having a temper.
  • My weed habit became a general drug habit.
  • I hate my life.
  • I'm a bitch to my mom.
  • Actually, I'm a bitch to everyone apart from Phil.

I think that's it for now. There's probably more to add to that, but I'm not really in the right frame of mind for thinking of everything that's wrong with me. I'll just end up wandering around in the middle of the freeway again, waiting for someone to run me over.

Six months ago, the band I was in fell apart because my sexuality rubbed the singer totally the wrong way. We all tried to ignore it, but in the end, everything just ended up exploding in everyone's faces.

Five and a half months ago, my drug habit began to spiral out of control.

Four months ago, Phil was trying to give up his own drug habit. He kept failing within hours of promising himself no more.

Three months ago, his parents blamed me for it, and dragged him out of the state, sending him to rehab.

Since then, I've tried to kill myself about four times, and have been admitted to hospital for three heroin overdoses, all on separate occasions. It's nothing I'm proud of, but if you're gonna understand anything, I guess you need to know about all this shit.

Two weeks ago, Phil ran away. He escaped the rehab unit, hotwired a car and drove back Los Angeles. Mom was happy for him to stay - I was a much nicer person to know when he was around. He asked me if I had any smack. I did.

Yesterday, his parents found him. I didn't even get to say goodbye, because I was busy being beaten up by one of the jocks at school.

Last night, I spent about five hours sitting in the freeway that runs through the city, but I guess I chose the wrong hour, ‘cause every fucking car that went past, went around me. Now I think about it, I guess I could've laid across the middle it, but I didn't think of that at the time.

Either way, I've ended up admitting myself to the psych ward. I don't really want to be here, but in a sober moment, I remembered my mom and how much it hurts her every time I try to kill myself. She's probably terrified that one day I'll succeed. The thing about when I try to kill myself is I don't fucking think about it. It's not something I plan out, or spend time thinking about in advance. I don't write notes or any of that crap. Something inside me will just snap and I'll go off and try to just make everything stop.

My mom might be terrified, but I have to fucking live with it. 

 

The End

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