It sort of amazes me, sometimes, that I’m still alive and am now going to be graduating. My parents never expected me to live past my twenty-first birthday. I never expected to live past my twenty-first birthday. The summer before university began I was seventeen, suicidal, and took my first major overdose less than two weeks after I graduated high school. I spent six or seven weeks in two psychiatric hospitals and came out unwilling to try for a better life. I was convinced self-destruction was my calling, it was the only thing I was good at.

Up until then I had only written a few horrible Dawson’s Creek fanfictions. I went to a poetry reading my first semester of university and began writing poetry ocasionally. My first semester of university was the only one where I attempted to be a part of the university community.

Since then, I changed my major to Creative Writing. I considered and decided against going into the medical field. I decided against becoming a psychologist. I’d love to become a writer but poets don’t make money.

I love writing scripts. It’s what I’d like to do with some formal training.

I haven’t cut or hurt myself myself since the beginning of April 2007. I haven’t purged since early Winter 2008. My last overdose was Fall 2006. I haven’t been hospitalized since April 2007. I haven’t been in therapy since 2007.

I’m alive.