I can’t talk. There’s nobody to talk to and if there were I don’t know what I would say. I desperately want to talk to someone who will listen; there are so many things I need to get out, to share before I explode. But still, when somebody asks, I have no words. Everything suddenly goes blank and everything I wanted, needed to say, vanish. So when I am once again alone in my home, I get sad again and all the things boil up again and I want to scream. I want somebody to hold me tight and whisper in my ear or just stroke my hair and calm me down. And then I’d talk and this person would listen without interrupting. They would listen to all the silly things, all the sick things that’s on my mind and desperately needed to come out, and they’d still like me after knowing everything.

It’s suffocating not ever getting things out in the open; also it is hard to trust a person that much that I could tell them everything. The tears are falling, heart racing and breathing fast; my hand almost shakes as I open the drawer and it get it out. I should’ve thrown it away, I know it. Maybe even the knives in the kitchen, everything, to keep myself from doing this because I really want to stop. But it’s calming, I love the feeling I get when I do it, I’m so tired of being so depressed and lonely so I can’t not do it anymore. I’ve gotten worse lately I don’t think I could ever be truly happy again. It feels so far away, that feeling of happiness.

I feel so stupid and useless. There's so many problems, I can't cope at all. Sometimes, I feel really, really sad. It's like I'm being sucked into some black hole and all I can feel is pain surrounding me. I want to share my emotions with someone but I'm scared to tell anybody. Scared to admit I'm weak. I don't want to be weak. That's why I pretend to be brave, pretend to be happy. Like there's nothing wrong at all. But I'm actually dying inside. Can anybody tell?

I am ashamed of myself. I harm myself. I hate myself. Why am I doing this? I can't help it, but everytime I use my penknife on my wrists, the blood seems to calm me down. But I've stopped doing that. My mum got really angry when she saw the cuts. I've moved onto my thighs now. At least nobody will see the cuts on my thighs. It is easier to hide.

I really need someone beside me. Someone who will shower me with tender loving care, someone who will always be there for me, to protect me and make me feel secure. I'm scared that someday I might just cut myself until I bleed to death. I want to stop. I really need someone, anyone.