Eight.

Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.

Y'know what I wish? I wish I had a normal head: a normal brain, a normal mental health. I wish that I had normal aspirations. Wish I could lie down low and fit in.

I am cursed with this inability to be sane. I am cursed with the fact that everyone thinks I'm happy, when really I'm imagining tearing myself limb from limb and screaming until there is nothing left of me anymore. It's terrifying when I think things like that. And yet, it happens all the time. I'm a bit of a freak, when it comes down to it. I like to trace lyrics on material, but I will never write them down on paper, because the lyrics are too true. They would bring the monsters from under your bed out to dance.

My mental health is a prison, and it's getting more and more claustrophobic every day. In my head, I am living in a never ending play. I'm waiting for the hero in it - sometimes I think I've found him and then he turns out to be made of nothing more than plastic and ash, and he crumbles away in my fingers. I think that I make them that way - they were whole to start with and then I set fire to them.

I'm going to be honest - I contemplate suicide a lot. It would probably be safer for everyone. I think, at the end of the day, I'm either going to drive everyone else mad, or burn them too. Both outcomes are very likely.

If I live past the age of eighteen, and I form a band, I'll laugh about this. Tell everyone how emo I was, and how I'm totally different. The play will go on, and my costume will be fixed. I'll tell myself it was all a nasty dream and that, really, I am just special.

But special is just another name for failure. And this failure isn't going to survive.