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Realizations show themselves through with every line I write.

Its funny, I have five versions of a suicide letter hidden away. I think I will work on my sixth one. Take bits and pieces from each of the five previous ones and add something else. If John, Alexia, and the others weren't there for me, I would have gone through with my plan last Saturday.

I had it all planned out. But no... I didn't do it.

Honestly, I can not take this anymore. I'm tired of my dreams, John told me I made weird noises in my sleep today when I fell asleep watching video games. I don't remember much of my dream, but Raymond was in it.

I can't take it. Its driving me insane. The more insane I get, the more hyper I become, the harder the crash is at the end of the day. I hate being alone, and I hate sitting on my a**. My body begs to go places, and walk around...

My body also misses a lot of things. Most of which I will probably never let happen for a very long time.

Writing is the only way to temporairly fix things. Cutting does that too, but its too much of a hassle to hide the wounds. ...So I write, b***h, and complain.

I don't know how long it will help, since its starting to wear off.

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