I tried to hang myself when I was eight. I made a shoddy noose out of the blanket from my brother’s top bunk. It didn’t hold my weight and I fell on my ass.
I’m 21. I haven’t tried since. I’ve told myself that it’s not worth it, no matter how hopeless things might get. My life is far too good and I have so many people that I care about, and people that care about me, to just throw everything away.
But every once in a while I feel like that confused little boy when nothing seems to makes sense.