Sometimes I read things that hurt to remember.

I read something today that made me very sad. It was a suicide note posted on a blog that I follow. It was obvious she had thought this out, she had chosen a day, Tuesday. She talked to everyone she wanted to. She chose violets for her funeral and wanted to be buried with two books. The only one she seemed to truly care about was her brother.

I wanted daisies and my day was going to be Thursday when my mom worked nights. I wasn't going to leave a note. I would have been thirteen.

It wasn't something I had wanted to remember. It wasn't something I want to happen to anyone else. I don't talk about it anymore, never did. I try not to think about sometimes it leaks out when I'm alone at night staring at the ceiling.

I didn't blame anyone, it wasn't anyone's fault. There's always been something wrong with me, the days always go from up to down and left to right in minutes. The pain still happens sometimes the seriously desperate urge to tear through my own skin just - just to see if I'm still really here still alive.

My sister told me once that she understood, that she knew. She doesn't. She may have done what I did but it wasn't the same, it wasn't for the same reasons. My mother yelled at me after I got caught at school one day, she was embarrassed. My dad doesn't talk about it. My brother, well, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know.

I don't want anyone to read this, to comment or to tell me that it's all going to be okay. I'm fine, just like always. I'm trying so like the girl had said as well, this isn't a cry for help. Unlike her, I really don't need any not anymore.