My first exposure to suicide was <lj-user="cagedwriter61">.

Well, okay, maybe not my first *ever*, but I spent thirty minutes tracing my LJ entries and on June 14, 2006, I wrote a really freaked-out private post full of capslock and anxiety because I thought this unknown person whose fic I sometimes enjoyed was gonna kill themselves. I remember the sick panic that filled me as I read her post and typed my own in a flurry of emotion.

Today, 11 years down the line, I found her LJ again and she's still alive. The journal isn't active and I can't find her anywhere online, but she was writing fic at least through 2015, before moving to a now-defunct Wordpress site.

It's crazy how time does that. I remember the visceral fear of loss that gripped me as I wrote out my post at 15; and now at 26 to know she's also survived and come to a truce with her demons - that's powerful stuff.

It just feels very hopeful. Like. We can do this. Look at us doing this. Surviving, living, thriving one step at a time.  
so i know that if i killed myself, my friends would be worried/sad for me. and living, i hate that because i love them and don't want to worry them. but you can't feel guilty when you're dead.

i don't think i'm scared of suicide; i'm scared of what would happen if i failed.
 I just put a plastic bag over my head and tied it there but took it off before I choked and does that count as a suicide attempt or would you like me to try harder next time?
this is the unasked question. we always come back here, don't we? this same place, four walls, one room. i am in you; there is no escaping me. you can lose me for a while (in a mug of coffee, a sunny day, a friend's smile) but the track marks on your wrists call to me and your thighs are red where i have tasted your flesh.

i will taste more flesh before this is through, and more than that besides.

you know why i'm here. you know what i want from you. you know what i will ask you to do.

the dark night, early to mid-october, is cold, silent )
tw: suicide attempt (not mine) )
What's that, you say? The first weekend back on campus, you say? Too many self-destructive feelings right now, you say?

I have razorblades in my room? Okay.


I definitely did not mean to do that. OOPS.
(But after all this, what's one more scar?)
Warning: this is a self-centered post full of teen angst.

Cut for your convenience, and to spare your brain cells. ;p


if I told you I don't take everything personally, that would be a lie )

Ok. That was my catharsis-for-the-weekend post. We return to your regularly scheduled programming shortly.
First order of business: It's been one month here, and I have so far refrained from killing anyone. Hooray.

THE ANGSTY PART - feel free to tl;dr )

OMG, why do my posts involve so much emotional whiplash?

*The ...what, ninth? Ranger's Apprentice book by John Flanagan. SOMEDAY I WILL STOP OBSESSING OVER CHEESY 12-YEAR OLD BOOKS, I SWEAR.
cut for potential trigger: mentions of suicide )



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