When Night Comes- Josie's Journals

These journal entries take us through the struggles of Josie's life as she fights through depression.


2. April 23, 2013



April 23, 2013


"Once upon a time there was a happy little girl.
Then she grew up."



It was Katherine's idea to start this journal. That's what shrinks do; they tell you to do things that are meant to help you. Things that are meant to 'fix' you. Truth be told, you can't just be 'fixed'. Depression isn't just some stage in life that people go through. It eats your insides out, draining you. It'll eat you slowly, day by day getting a little worse, feeling a little more dejected each day, until... Nothing. You feel hollow; empty. Dead.

You start to feel like you have no purpose anymore. There is no reason to live anymore. No one notices. No one feels your cold blood rushing through your veins, begging to be released, to be freed from your skin from one slice of a razor. They don't realize how much of a relief it is to let the blood trickle down your wrist, watching the red stream curl down your scarred skin. 
No one hears the voices screaming words into your mind, drilling them into your brain.
A waste of space.

No one knows how much of a struggle it is to just get through another day.

That's what I hate about shrinks. They think that a few lessons with them will help you. That it'll erase the pain you feel. Talking about my 'feelings' won't help me. I don't have enough words to describe how I feel. Making up a load of shit and telling some snotty-nosed stranger with a degree won't help me.

Nothing will.

And the one thing I hate most about shrinks is that they act like they care. They act like they are listening, that they will be a shoulder to lean on when you need it. They act like they will support you. But they are just fucking with your mind. They couldn't care less. The sooner you get better, the sooner you can leave. The sooner they can run off to spill your thoughts to their friends.

It wasn't my idea to see a shrink, it was Mums. She thought it would help me. I'm sorry Mum, but you were wrong. Its been 11 months, and I'm still not the cheerful little girl you want back.

But that Josie is gone. She died along with my happiness over a year ago.

My Mum found about my depression 11 and a half months ago, two weeks before my 16th birthday. I had fought so hard that day to stay away from the razor. I fought with every ounce of strength I had. But I couldn't. The weight of the world fell onto my shoulders and I crumbled. I couldn't do it any longer. I wanted to feel something. Anything. So I reached into the back of my dresser and pulled out my razor and sliced my wrist three times.

I didn't even hear the door open. I didn't see her standing there, a basket of freshly folded washing under her arm, tears running down her broken face as she watched the blood drip onto the floor.

And I didn't even think when I put the metal to my arm again, right in front of her, and slicing again.

And she screamed.

She screamed so loudly, a loud, shrieking wail. 

And then she collapsed.

I only remember bits of what happened next. I guess my brain down want to remember. It doesn't want me to remember what I had done to her. What I am still doing to her.
I remember calling the ambulance, and at the same time wrapping my arm in a white bandage.

I remember running by her bedside through the stark hospital hallways.

I remember the look of dejection and misery on her face when she opened her eyes and saw me. She couldn't even look me in the eye. And I don't blame her. I was a mess, and I had hurt her. 

And I wasn't sorry.

I was sorry that she has seen it, and that I had continued with her watching, but I wasn't sorry for doing it. I needed release. And besides, she was going to find out sooner or later.

I guess she just found out the hard way.

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