Suicidal Thoughts

"It's not the cowards way out...It's not the cowards way out...It's not...It's not the....It's not the cowards...way out..."
The bottle of pills slipped out my hand, the red and blue capsules scattering of the bathroom tiles. I sunk to the ground, tears falling down my face for what felt like the millionth time. "It's not...the cowards...way out..."
But if it's not the cowards way out, why couldn't I do it?


2. Chapter 1



If you have been bullied, you’ll know how I feel. Not a bit of name-calling, maybe being kicked or shoved. I’m not talking about the sort of bullying that makes you tired of coming to school. I mean the sort of bullying that makes you dread walking through the gates, begin to shake at the thought of having to get up in the mornings. The sort that has the whole school chanting names at you, the sort where even your friends turn against you. I mean the sort of bullying where you can only wear long sleeved shirts to hide the bruises, where you have to force yourself not to crawl under the covers and the end of each day.

If you have been bullied, properly bullied, you’ll know how I feel.


The worst part is trust. Not the physical pain inflicted onto me, but the mental pain of losing the trust of someone I would have previously trusted with my life. The pain of losing the trust of people I used to call my best friends is worse than any amount of punches, hits or kicks they can throw at me.

So why? Why do they all turn against me? Are they all mentally unwell? Can they all be attention seekers, in it for the reaction? No, not every one of them. What do they all have in common? Me. So it must be my fault, I am the reason they are like this.

That’s why I cut. Because it’s not their fault I fail, it’s not their fault I’m stupid, ugly and a loser. I made them like this, so it’s my fault.


I haven’t always been suicidal. I used to be normal, just like everyone else. I used to go to parties, mess around. I used o have friends. But it’s not an overnight change. It gets harder and harder to control. When I first began cutting, I was forced into seeing a counsellor.

“I think...I think I want to die.” My whisper was barely audible.

“You’re having suicidal thoughts?”

“No.” I hesitated, not sure whether to trust him. “But I don’t think I’d prevent an accident.”

“Can you explain?” the counsellor questioned, peering inquisitively over his half-moon spectacles.

“If a car was coming towards me, I don’t think I’d move out the way.”

Seeming taken aback at my response, he took down notes in his little black notebook. We didn’t speak much for the rest of the session, and I never went back.


In the car respect, not much changed over the next few months. I still wouldn’t have moved out of the way. But as the bullying got worse, the urge to jump under the car became greater. The only thing stopping me was the thought that death might not come as easily as that. I couldn’t risk being left alive but injured. 

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