broken

Hi, I'm Valerie. I'm only 16 but it seems like i lived a thousand years. Since my best friend found out my secret, she treats me differently, my parents think I'm some kind of a devil, people at school laugh at me for no apparent reason, don't worry I'm used to that. Wanna know my secret? well here it goes..

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3. Suicidal note 1.

Dear everyone,

                        One day, you're going to find me laying there, not breathing. Or you will receive a phone call. Or you'll hear it in the morning announcements  maybe the principal will arrange an assembly. You're going to look up the signs and think to yourself "all the signs were there. I should have known". You'll talk to someone about it. They'll tell you it wasn't your fault, you couldn't have done anything to stop me. But that's not true. You could have listened that one time I tried calling out for help. You could have asked me if I was okay. You shouldn't have left, shouldn't have promised to always be there. You didn't have to say those mean words, didn't have to be so cruel. There's so much you could have done, you could of just taken 10 minutes out of your day to talk to me. Just think of that 10 minutes. You didn't give up 10 minutes and I gave up the rest of my life, and you will be praying for another 10 minutes to apologize. 

This is the hardest part I believe. Trying to explain how I do want help but at the same time want to be left alone. How after such a long time, I have fallen in love with my sadness and have convinced myself that without I am nothing. I have come to identify myself with it; its my comfort zone. Yet at the same time that I worship my sadness by the thin lines on my wrists, i hate it. I hate it and I try to burn it out by holding matches to my skin and when that doesn't work I try to call it out. I stand in front of my mirror and pinch my fat, subconsciously hoping that if I pinch hard enough, the physical pain will purge the sadness and anger out. It never works of course. I keep doing it though. Over and over and over and over again. Until I forget why i did it in the first place and do it simply because it starts feeling good. How fucked up is that? It feels good to physically hurt myself. To drag razor blades across my wrists and punch walls and dig my nails into my things until they bleed. This is not normal, it shouldn't be but it is. That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.

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