i’m wonderful at keeping journals. really. i wonder if anyone even reads this.

life has been… tolerable. i used the doubled-edged razors I bought several times. not horribly deep, I save that for the more rough tools. razors are graceful, leave neat little lines and shapes in the skin. i was mocking myself and started carving ‘dying is an art’ in my arm. i think the line is rather apt in describing my situation. i have made misery an art form of sorts, it has become what i am and i try to do it well. not that the idea is comforting when my mind is horribly blank and the silence is so loud. or when i’m too depressed to cut. cutting is misery? i say that, for me, there is a misery beyond that, not being able to cut because lifting up the blade or getting out a candle seems all too complicated. rather funny when you think about it. or maybe i just am not taking myself seriously enough. i’d rather do that than wallow in self-pity. i fucked up early in life and this is where i brought myself. nineteen, no friends, afraid of the world.

i’m writing a story from my father’s perspective. it’s a look at my last suicide attempt, which was two years ago. the one where i almost died. about a hundred and fifty pills. i wanted to make sure. i somehow fucked that up. my mother says i took something that saved me. i’m not sure what. i wasn’t thinking at the time. it was just finding pills and swallowing them, no matter what they were. prescription pills, pain medication, cough medicine, whatever was there. well, in this story i sort of tell the tale. some of the students critiquing it have told me that i somehow seem to look at it from a *clinical* perspective and seem unfamiliar with the emotional aspects of the sitation. that made me laugh. just because i didn’t have the parents sobbing in the story doesn’t mean there is a lack of emotion. when i attempted suicide both my parents were very calm and that worked well. i don’t know what would have happened if they had both went to pieces. stupid people. they want ‘realistic’ stories but when confronted with one that does not follow the familiar pattern of ‘girl takes medication, parents freak out (crying and screaming in loads) and call 911, she is saved.’ Bull-fucking-shit. I’m not writing after school special crap like that.

there were a lot of good points made in the critique, though. there were just a special few that had me smirking. why didn’t i tell the story from the perspective of the girl who od’d? because, at the time, you have the memory and intelligence of a cabbage. it’s not much of a perspective.

i guess i’m just frustrated. that made me very anxious.

i got tired at the end of ‘dying’ so I’m saving the rest of the line for later.

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