As an author, I always end up writing about someone trying to cope with a mental illness. I don’t know why this might be, but it happens every single time I sit down and write. Which isn’t much of a surprise to the people around me, because I always seem to attract the “crazy ones.”


Maybe it’s not the people I attract that are the “crazy ones.” If anyone was crazy, maybe it’s me. I can never seem to make the good ones who come into my life stay because I always go for the bad ones. I don’t know why this is, maybe because I have this urge to help the broken ones, make them see that not everyone will treat them bad. But, how can I make them feel any better, when I can’t even make myself feel better? I give everyone great advice, but in my time of need I can never seem to follow through with my own.



I wouldn’t say I’m depressed, because I can still smile, and I can still laugh with my friends. I can still find the light in my life and it’s not always so bad.


It’s just the moments that I am alone, late at night when all my homework is finished, and all my friends and family are asleep. It is then when I start to find the worst parts about life. I begin to feel alone, sad, suicidal, dead.


Sometimes I think about all the people who have left my life because of the fact that I can begin to be too much to handle. I wonder about what they would do if I would just disappear for awhile.