As I sit here at my desk typing into the keyboard all my thoughts are racing. I feel like writing this just to get it out so excuse the rantings. Beginning with being an overly self conscience fifth grader to being a multiply diagnosed nineteen year old guy. According to doctors I was diagnosed with an Eating Disorder(starting with anorexia switching to bulimia and back to anorexia) Major Depressive Disorder, Schitzophrenic Paranoia, ADD, and several other more insignificant problems. Daily i take An antidepressant, anti-anxiety, amphetamine, and an anti-psychotic. Brings me to eight pills a day. I have been in and out of the hospital twice, once for an attempted suicide when i was drunk, and the second for instabilty. Both where I was admitted into a psych ward. I wanted to get better before i started the medication but as it went on i got worse. They have jumped me from medication to medication, blaming the fact that i waited to long to get help was why i wasn't getting better. And now I am starting to realize how things work. Beginning with the fact that I am absolutely addicted to two of my medications. Being Adderall and Klonopin, which is an antianxiety. Adderall to aid my eating disorder and give me energy, and Klonopin in order to not be the epitome of cynicism and believe that shadows at night are not hiding people that just observe me.

Recently I lost my best friend. She became understandably annoyed with my depressive almost manic states and mood changes as one medication wore off to another. I eventually made her depressed. She left and has a new group of friends and now shes happy. I feel horrible for how i made her feel by being negative. I never directly said negative things to her, but about things regarding to life and just the overwhelming feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, and guilt. It was almost like i gave her a sneak peak to the hell i was living with. But shes happy now that we do not talk. And i'm not. My reaction to her actions led a broken cd to cause twelve cuts on my upper thigh. I just realized that if i cannot kill myself in a direct way again then i am forced to commit a slow suicide. And it has already started.

I am six feet and one inch and weigh one hundred and fifty three pounds. Its to the point where i cannot wear white shirts anymore because people comment on the fact that they can see my rib cage. I abuse my adderall to aid this and no one takes notice. Not even my psychiatrist who knows all of my problems, she doesn't care as long as she recieves her paycheck. And as i was sitting in the front of my mid-sized suburban home chain smoking my Marlboro cigarrettes, tonight, i realized this was my way out. This is it. My slow suicide. And by writing this I only hope that people don't feel the way i do. I desperately want the world to go on. I care in that sense. I want everything to be perfect and happy.

But i feel like i have already been exposed to too much too young. Even as I sit here i can feel my heart pounding. It is sick to say but it is so comforting. I know the end is close. That all this suffering will eventually subside into nothingness. Everyone has to start understanding that unless you are seriously messed up, by a long line of hereditary mental illnesses and horrifying and confusing personal experiances, you can get better. Depression is a chemical thing. But i can't fight it anymore I realize that after a while with treatment both therapy and psychiatry I subconsciously cannot and will not allow myself to get better. It's almost like i resist it, all of the effort to 'stabilize' me failed and so everyone who reads this is left to cope with their own diagnosis and i wish you good luck and a happy life. I know exactly what I am doing to my body, and i pray for my life to finally come to it's end.