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You did not fear death. You stepped in its path, but without really desiring it: how can one desire something one doesn’t know? You didn’t deny life but affirmed your taste for the unknown, betting that if something existed on the other side, it would be better than her

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The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne. The prevention of many suicides will continue to be hindered until there is a general awareness of the nature of this pain.

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I’m going to kill myself. I should go to Paris and jump off the Eiffel Tower. I’ll be dead. you know, in fact, if I get the Concorde, I could be dead three hours earlier, which would be perfect. Or wait a minute. It -- with the time change, I could be alive for six hours in New York but dead three hours in Paris. I could get things done, and I could also be dead.

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Crap.

It's all crap.

Living is crap.

Life has no meaning.

None. Nowhere to be found.

Crap.

Why doesn't anybody realize this?

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Other times, I look at my scars and see something else: a person who was trying to cope with something horrible that they should never have had to live through at all. My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive. They're part of my history that'll always be there.

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Hanged

I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,

the point is I hanged myself today and I’m still

hanging.

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that

someone will come home and cut me down

but then I keep remembering that if I knew

someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit

ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read

somewhere that, like, anything funny is,

in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it's

funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns

“funny”, you know?

I feel taller. I like that.

I’ve never been away from my shadow for

this long. It had always clung to my feet,

parting momentarily for a quick dive into

the swimming pool. But never for five

hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space

between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be

stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

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Its so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint-it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.

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Living life as a young adult is hard because we are just learning how things are. Getting into a relationship is hard and not easy. A guy shouldn't act like a child. A guy needs to give his attention to his girl other than playing xbox or playstation. A guy should treat his girl with love and treat her like a queen. A guy should be honest, caring, funny, and sweet. A guy should call you everyday, making sure you are alright or even texts you. A guy should never leave you on read. A guy needs to see everyday that he has someone so special in his life that could love, care, and share his life with. If a guy doesn't care about you and treats you like crap, then he is just a child. At the end he loses you and sees you go off with another guy who would treat you more better. Thinking to himself, what did he just do or what he lost...

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I know I should be sorry

I know I should feel bad

Because here I am doing the thing 

I said I'd never do again. 

I said I wouldn't hurt myself

But that's been ******* all along.

The only thing that kept me clean 

Was knowing that if I splipped

I'd be hurting more than just me.

But now I'm sitting here 

Like I have so many times 

Tearing at my skin

For a glimpse 

Of sweet relief. 

In the grand scheme of things

A few small scrapes 

Doesn't make a difference.

It's nothing dangerous 

And it's not hurting anyone

It's just a way for me to silence 

The monsters in me.

I don't care anymore

About taking care of me

I'll do what I want 

Even if it kills me.

I'll do what I want 

Even if it means

ruining nine months

Of a fleeting fantasy

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Relapse and rewind 

This happens every ******* time. 

I've been neglecting the drugs,

The ones that were supposed to save me. 

They only make it worse 

Make me feel more crazy. 

But when the time comes

Where my tide breaks

I cannot hold my ground.

The monsters come to me

With deafening sound.

Whispers from malevolent lips

Sound so sweet.

Like candy for my starving soul.

And soon I'm on that sugar high.

Rushing cherry red 

It's got such a lovely flavor.

Feeds my hunger 

Satisfies my thirst.

It won't be long 

Before I'm back for more.

~Lizzy

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When the black thing was at its worst, when the illicit cocktails and the ten-mile runs stopped working, I would feel numb as if dead to the world. I moved unconsciously, with heavy limbs, like a zombie from a horror film. I felt a pain so fierce and persistent deep inside me, I was tempted to take the chopping knife in the kitchen and cut the black thing out I would lie on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking about that knife and using all my limited powers of self-control to stop myself from going downstairs to get it.

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I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.

~David Benioff

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It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative —whichever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.

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You know you’re borderline when you fluctuate between fearing abandonment to encouraging it

~Jaen Wirefly

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I've grown up with an ethic, call it a part, that insists I hide my pain at all costs. As I talk, I feel this pain leaking out—not just the core symptom of BPD, but all the years of being blamed or ignored for my condition, and all the years I've blamed others for how I am. It's the pain of being told I was too needy even as could never get the help I needed.

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Jeff: Do you have to attack me with words all the time?

Jane: You want me to use rocks?

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Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?