Suicidal tendencies don't stay dead. (No pun intended.)

So there's been a lot of fighting, with myself at least, if I would post this journal entry or not. But I guess I will. Because why have writing that someone's not going to read. I mean it may be embarrassing, may make people think you're insane. But the sheer fact that someone's reading it, that someone out there knows how you feel. Well it makes me feel better in a way.

One year ago I was suicidal. One day I was taking pills to go numb. The next I was cutting my wrists to make sure I wasn't completely numb. I was a late thirteen, early fourteen year old kid with not much going for me. My family was broke, I was being home schooled in the country so I didn't have any friends, and I was hurtling towards the border of sanity and insanity. Then I went to school for eighth grade. Sure things were fun, I had friends that I could hang out with. The homework wasn't too hard. But things hit me hard that year. I can't pinpoint exactly what it was that made me cut my wrists or take the pills. But eighth grade was the year. I went to school wearing jackets in eighty degree weather, I was crying in school, I needed help.

The worst part about the whole charade was the fact that I had friends that I trusted everything with, and they knew (well knew enough) about my problems that they could have helped me any way. But they didn't. They just sat back and watched with the other kids while I sat there in pain and agony, living in my own depressed mind every day. And even in my state I would reach out and help them. When my friend, who shall remain un-named, was cutting her wrists I was the one that was there to help her. I was the one that sat with her in the hallway, holding in my own tears as she cried and told me what was wrong with her. They didn't do anything. And I prayed to god that they would. I thought that if just one of them would reach out and help me back up. Just one of them, I could have stopped sooner.

I don't count many people as true friends anymore. I don't even have a best friend. Well that's a lie, I do. But there's so much drama with her I don't talk to her much. If only I had, had her as a best friend when I was going through this point in my life. I would have been okay. I know I would have been, because she would have helped me no matter what.
Now enough sappyness about my friend.
True friends. If you don't know what that means then i'll explain. A true friend is someone you can be yourself with. Someone you don't have to hold back your thoughts or actions in fear that they'll disown you. That's what a true friend is.
And as of December 11th, 2011. I don't think I have any of those. I mean sure I can be random and crazy, say some things that make them say 'what the heck.' But if they knew what was really running through my mind at that moment, they would kick me out into the cold. I'm insane I know it, i've had it told to my face.

I've had people i've trusted just turn their backs and tell me i'm a compulsive liar, i'm 'mixed in the brain', an emo kid, etc. I can deal with it. I can really......But I can't lie. I mean why lie to strangers? It hurts. Bad. To have one of your best friends call you on the phone and tell you that you're a lying emo that she was only friends with because she felt sorry for you....that hurts. It made me start to rethink every friendship i've ever had at that school I went to. Made me paranoid that they were all plotting to bring the spirit of a teenager down to the ground. And if they had, I would have fallen, I would have been broken. I vulnerable.
But they didn't, thank god, and I survived. Never went to that school again, went to a different one. And I survived.

And now to the beginning of the end of this journal. The reason this journal is titled this.
It's coming back.
The thoughts.
The wanting to die.
It's all coming back.
I thought it was gone. I thought I had beat the depression like a pinata in a fight with a baseball bat. Me being the baseball bat.
I thought I had lived through it, had come out a better person. But I guess not. Because strangers reading this. It's back. And I'm scared. Scared that i'll cut again, scared that i'll take the pills again. Only this time i'm scared i'll go to far. And that someday you'll never hear from me again.

And I want someone to help. Maybe my friends, but it's hard for me to just outright ask them for help. Because I know i'll end up yelling at them for not being there the first time. I won't trust them, I really can't trust them. I'm a paranoid, insane, freak. It's like i'm on drugs only....i'm not.
I just don't know what to do....

The purpose of this journal, don't know, just to get my thoughts out on a page and look and see what i'm dealing with. It's a lot. Well to me anyway.
So this is where I leave. To dwell in my own thoughts and voices in my head.
But the voices is another journal for another time.