This letter is to anyone.. or no one.. I don't really know. I guess I should be writing in a diary or something- I just need to get this stuff down and out of my head.

I should probably be back in the hospital right now.. I mean, in all honesty, I suppose it was a suicide attempt. A very pitiful and nowhere near successful suicide attempt, but an attempt none-the-less.
Except, I'm not sure that I really wanted to die. I tried. God knows, I tried. I wanted so badly to hit something vital.. for the desperation of my outside circumstances to match the desperation I feel inside.
Well, that, and the blood. I wanted to see the blood, spurting with every pulse of my heart. I wanted to see that beautiful, crimson pumping out of my body.
But, I had my phone right there.. I could have called 911 so easily, and so fast. I could have had ambulances and police cars at my house in seconds and "heroes" running into the house to rescue me.
Rescue.
That's the word.
I can't imagine ever being "rescued". I can't imagine anyone ever pulling through and "saving" me from myself.
And, that's what it is. My mom thinks that she can make things better by taking shit away from me.. the blades, the knives, the matches, the lighters, the needles, etc.. she thinks that removing the temptation will be enough, that making all the same cursory attempts any parent makes when their child is slipping away will be enough, that it'll make me "all better again" (as if that were even possible at this point).
And, the thing is, one would think that would make sense.. but, that's based on the common belief that it's those things that she takes away from me that are a danger to me, and not, as is the case, that I am a danger to myself.

**to be continued....**.. someday.. **