I Enjoy Every Inch Of Sanity.

"When you look in the mirror, do you like what you see?" I stared at her. If I liked what I saw in the mirror, would I have cut pansy in to my fucking wrist?

I think that maybe, if I was attractive, I'd be more careful and I'd take care of my body. Maybe I wouldn't cut at all.

Would I have swallowed those pills?

Looking good would probably solve a lot of my problems. Most of them, at least. I don't think it can make my dad come back.

Looking good could get me a girlfriend, something my stupid fucking emo looks can't do.

Too bad looking good won't help my shitty personality.

"No." I answer, looking down, ashamed. What kind of 14 year old boy ends up in a hospital for attempting suicide, anyway? Shouldn't I be with my girlfriend? Or friends, getting drunk? Not that I have a girlfriend, or friends.

"Frank, I need you to look at me," I looked at her.

"What?"

"We're going to send you to a place where they help teens like you. Teens who are suicidal and depressed. Understand?"

Yes, I fucking understand. I'm crazy and I'm going to a mental ward.

I'm no crazy.

"What the fuck? Why am I going to a mental ward?"

"Frank, language. And it's not a mental ward. It's for normal teenagers who need a bit of help, who need to learn how to cope."

"I can cope on my own. I've coped this fucking long."

"Language, again. And coping on your own? That's why you're in a hospital for attempting suicide?" She stared at me.

I rolled my eyes, "No, I'm not going."

"You have no choice."

And with that, she got up and left. Lovely woman. Your husband is one lucky man.

I layed back on my bed and closed my eyes. God, I need sleep. I've seen at least 8 nurses since I got here last night. Or this morning? What time is it?

Either way, I need to sleep. I have a bed for a reason, right?

I sound like the psychologist. I need to stop asking myself questions and calm down.