So... Here is my confession. I have an advanced brain. I know I sound stuck up and there's no way to ever explain it, but I do. I understand things very easily. That also means that my imagination is... Crazy. Ever since I was little, I would make up stories in my head, stories and worlds of magic and amazing things. They were wonderful, and they would seem so real. I was always the main character, someone beautiful, powerful, amazing. I think that's probably the main reason I started to hate my real life. I didn't know it. It was creeping up on me from behind. I wish I could still escape into those fantasy worlds of mine now, but everytime I try, I just get dragged back into reality.
Just over a month ago, a friend of mine (let's call her G) attempted suicide. A week later, I cut myself for the first time. I don't think I did it because of what G did, directly, but if she hasn't attempted, I don't know if I still would've done it.
I was able to tell my parents, and my school, but that was it. I pretended that everything was getting a lot better now, that what I did had helped me see what was happening and that I could fight it now. Of course, that was all bull. I cut myself a few times everyday now.
I often get a period of time lasting two or three days, when I don't feel the need to cut. I'm fine, I could just go to sleep without it. But if I do that, once my 'emotional high' as I call it, is over, I have to cut myself a lot in one session. At least thirty. So I've found that I end up with less cuts if I just cut a few every day, even if the need isn't very strong.
Also, I've had a good life. My parents are great and supportive, my whole family is great and I'm pretty close with my friends.
I know that three of my friends cut themselves too. And when they open up to me, tell me some story of bullying or a terrible childhood, I feel like I don't deserve to cut myself because I don't have a reason. I've lived a life people can only dream of, and yet here  I am wishing I could escape and making it horrible. I haven't earned the right to say that I am depressed, because I still feel happy and I laugh with my friends. I feel like I am doing it for attention, and I hate myself for that. When I'm happy, I always ruin it when I realise how I'm not actually feeling anything at all, when I feel how it's just a trick of the physical body.
And for me, one of the worst things is knowing that I would never be able to kill myself. I couldn't, because of my family, because I just couldn't. That's another thing I hate myself for.
I can feel myself going insane. My mind was never going to cope; these thoughts and feelings were inevitable. I've given up, I think.
I know this probably hasn't made any sense, but thank you for reading my messed up thoughts.