Happy birthday to me.......

Well I feel kinda stupid? Not that journals are stupid, I just feel rather stupid, I mean, who would want to read what I write? So okay... Hi.

It's my birthday today! I've gotten loads of great presents, hello kitty themed... Y'know? Hey I'm fifteen, not fifty, and even if I WAS fifty, I would have the right to live young. Ok, so... I’ve decided to write a journal. I really don’t know why, it’s sort of not.... But I read someone else’s, (stalkerisms, ...To the max) and it sort of inspired me.

You see... I don’t think I need a shrink or anything, and I used to post all of the, what I like to call, ‘dark thoughts’ onto twitter. But then again, I had a friend by me too. And I don’t know what happened there. I think? We’re still friends. But for someone who use to text me every morning, wake me up at six (yeah, I wasn’t too happy about that, I WONDER why... But I didn’t mind THAT much) and now she’s sort of hard to talk to. It’s hard to keep up a conversation.

ANYWAY. Um. Where was I going with this?... Oh um, rant. I don’t feel I can use twitter anymore. Well I will, but I don’t trust it. I trust the people but not the site, let me tell you a story... (For those of you who MIGHT actually be reading this, then again I talk to myself anyway... so it’s not much difference)

SO, one not so lonely Friday night I get..... Sad, it’s just like an old friend that’s betrayed me, a darkness that takes over my every being, my every emotion, half making me want to throw myself around, and half wanting to crawl up into a ball and cry. As per usual I went for the latter.
I sat at my computer, talking to... Friends, of my fears and worries. I held around a hundred or so pills in my lap, a mixture of prescriptioned ibuprofen and my collected paracetomol pills. And a few nurofen, I think. I sat there. My friend telling me... I should do it. I don’t hate her for it. I definitely don’t. What else are friends for? Standing by you, having your back in every decision. She was there for me; obviously there was some... other friends who didn’t agree. But, whatever.

I sat there, two litres of Pepsi max in front of me, and one by one I swallowed pills. Drinking Pepsi to help them down. I was tweeting about it. I was talking about it. I was so ready to DIE, Wait scratch that, I AM so ready to die. After about eighty pills I couldn’t take it anymore, I could taste the paracetomol in my mouth and I could feel it rising in my throat. I felt... Faint. I said... Goodbye to a few DEAR friends.

Over twitter, msn, then I staggered down the stairs to my bed. I lay there, thinking... would anybody care if I died? I wrote my, what I thought was, my final words in my diary and I tried to sleep. A few hours later I woke up, puking, the smell of paracetomol vomit burning through my head, tears springing to my eyes. I cleaned it up, merely stripping the sheets off my bed and throwing them in the corner to be later dealt with. I then collapsed onto the bed, too tired and too without energy to bother putting any sheets on the bed... Yeah, I was lazy. I fell asleep almost instantly, tears still present.

Then I woke up AGAIN, I saw light, tears poured out of my eyes, I had survived, and I hated it. I felt disgusting as another wave of sickness came over me; I puked over my bare duvet and cried even more, I puked up my whole stomachs content and then some, I fell back panting, the disgusting stench of vomit pushing against me. I felt drained and while shouting for my mother I fell back into a sleep. The next time I awoke, the sky had gotten even lighter, and once again my body tried to expel everything from within my stomach. The acid burnt my throat. Tears kept coming and my shouts became mere whispers and I fell back.

Around nine o’clock I was beyond weak, my tears were stinging my rubbed-raw cheeks and I couldn’t bare the smell. I pulled myself with the help of the radiator against the wall and avoided stepping in my puke. I shivered and pulled myself, leaning against walls, to go down the. I made my way to the kitchen, the cold slabs of the kitchen floor feeling like ice against my, by now, burning skin. My mother rolled her eyes and helped me to the sofa, calling my little sister to tend to me. She brought me water, her own blanket and a desk fan. She stood by me.

Of the week I spent puking, I couldn’t eat anything without bringing it back up. And for a while just resorted to drinking orange juice to keep my mum happy, and thinking I was trying, my puke tasted like orange juice... Not as bad as you might think.... and I think I spent almost a full week off school.

On (I’m not kidding, really) May, 13th, Friday, I was at home. I had a bad feeling about the day (who doesn’t?) so I pulled the sick thing, and my mum let me stay home. (This was 1 week, or two... I can’t figure it out...After the failed suicide attempt.) I was called into the doctors, like I didn’t make an appointment, they actually called me in, and I was like... Oh shit. I got told I might have gall stones, which is like, old people problems and I’m like :/ so then I went home. I then found my cat under my sister’s bed, she’d had kittens. I was so HAPPY. I danced around for a bit and then went upstairs to tweet madly. After about an hour or so, my mum called me down and she seemed frantic. “Shorifa, come down, the police!! The police! It’s because you haven’t been going to school” I was like WHAAAT YOU ON MUMMEH? And I
came down smiling.

Sure enough, standing at the door were two police people. They asked if they could talk to me and I was like “sure....” so then they told me about having seen my suicidal tweets, then looking me up, then having called the school and found I hadn’t been in school for a full week, and came to check I was alive (I later found they’d picked MY tweets up because of my Arabic name and the work “kill” by the metropolitan police who had picked them up for terrorism, who then called the local police who did the rest of the shiz). I then got referred to the school nurse who found out about my cuts and called specialist people from camhs (Children and Adolescent Mental Health Services) who then referred me to the school shrink.... Yeah. So that’s why I don’t like twitter (I deleted that in an instant before crying on the phone to my friends in a science lesson). Well I do like it. It’s just not safe. So that is my long version of the story of why I shall be venting on mibba.