Last Year

When I was 13 I wanted to die.
I looked out at my perfect world
And felt none of it.
None of that could save me from my own brain.
Anxiety and depression pulled me 
Into my dark depths of self-loathing.
Tendrils of imperfection infiltrated my mind,
Convincing me that something wasn’t right,
So everything had to go.
I listened to songs about suicide and giving up.
I let them poison my mind,
Thinking nothing would ever be better.
I scolded myself when I didn’t dig my fingernails deeply enough into my skin to leave marks.
I’d stand on a balcony
And think how easy it’d be to end it all.
I’d stop hurting.
It’s a short cut through hell, right?
But I didn’t.
I waited, I cried, I hurt myself, I isolated myself.
But I could never bring myself to end it all.

That was a year ago,
But it feels a lifetime away.
I can’t listen to those songs 
Without getting an anxiety attack.
Sometimes I have to physically restrain myself from scratching my wrists and neck.
And sometimes it doesn’t work.
I think of last year
And it terrifies me to know
How close I was to not being here.

I’m not perfect,
But I’m so much happier.

A lot can change in a year.
Don’t give up.