welcome to my fucked up life

the other day my mom told me she tried to commit suicide. she was 13. she downed a whole bottle of pain pills and was rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. she was so nonchalant about it when she told me. she said, “i guess we don’t really know what we’re doing when we’re that young, do we? we don’t know what it means to die.” i just sat and thought about that for awhile. what does it mean to want to end your life? i’ve contemplated suicide many times. i’m depressed. it’s self-diagnosed, of course. i’ve talked about my depression with my mom and with my boyfriend. my boyfriend says, “you need to get professional help.” telling a depressed 19 year old girl to get professional help is like telling a cat to roll over; it doesn’t happen. i’ve tried talking to people. i had a therapist in 4th grade when my mom chose to stick needles in her arm instead of raising her 10 year old daughter. the only other person i’ve really talked to was my high school guidance counselor; whom i met when my boyfriend found out i cheated on him and i cried for the rest of the day in the guidance office. i’ve hated talking to people ever since. why? because you tell them your entire life story, then you go to college and are told to find someone professional to talk to.. where i’ll have to repeat my story and relive the hell i went through that was my childhood. no thanks. i have abandonment issues. first when my dad died when i was 8. second when my mom was sent to jail for heroin and i was sent to live with my aunt in a different state, making all new friends. you can judge me for cheating on my boyfriend multiple times, but everyone i’ve ever loved has walked out on me. but that’s a story for another time.

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