I guess it’s hard when you sneak beer upstairs at 15 because you got mad and said you wanted to drink and someone encouraged you to do it. When someone said you wouldn’t drink a bottle of beer, so you had to do it just to prove them wrong. It’s bad when you are on medicine that if you drink there is a slight risk of you dying and never seeing your family again. But you do it anyways. Its bad that when your mom says, “I couldn’t live with myself if I came home one day to find you dead on the floor.” But you’ve once been there when you wanted to die. You know it’s bad when you’re grounded for drinking and also sneaking it but when your parents leave to take your little sister to the pool. You go to the knife drawer and take a slice at your wrist. It doesn’t take away the pain but it subsides the pain for about a half of a second. The next day you wake up, you go downstairs, open the knife drawer and cut again. 2 more times that day to just make you feel better. The next day 2 more times but with a razor this time. My world felt like it was slowly coming to an end. I’ve attempted suicide 3 times but never cut. As soon as I cut I would be filled with guilt and shame. The first time I went out with my friends and had cuts on my wrists I bought ice cream and when I went to grab the cash from the cashiers hand, he saw my cuts. I was scared my best friend saw them and would tell my mom. I wanted to tell her, I really did but I also didn’t want to be taken to a mental hospital or psych ward. I was also just told that I could cut my antidepressants in half so that I could slowly edge off of them and eventually not have to take them and I didn’t want to have to go back to taking the full pill. It was a constant world of what if’s. What if my mom sees them and takes me to the hospital? What if I tell someone and they don’t want to be my friend anymore? What if, what if, what if.