I Want To Stop Hurting

Entry 1: Pros And Cons Of Breathing

Patrick's POV.

I sit in my bedroom, alone, naturally devastated, and left to my thoughts that I can't avoid. The ones that make me lose my mind. The ones that are out to get me. The ones that take over when I'm alone. The ones that constantly have the choke-hold on me, including right now, in the dark hours of the morning. Thirteen minutes past midnight, to be exact. They just don't shut up. For over two years, all I've ever felt is pain. It's excruciating and unbearable. The depression has gotten to me worse than ever for the past six days. I can't take it. All I know how to do is fucking cry my eyes out and scream in pain. Thank God my parents aren't home for the next few days.

I broke my mirror just minutes ago, not being able to face who was staring back at me. The gross, putrid, hateful, pitiful, ugly freak. I took it off the hooks and smashed it into the ground in fury and rage, and now broken glass is all over my bedroom floor, and I just want to take a sharp peice and end it now. Here. Tonight. Before I get sent to some psychologist or get put under suicide watch at some hospital, stuffed into some soft little room where I can't hurt myself, only to let the insanity set in at full-throttle and be looked at as a teenage monster.

I now sit on my bed, barefooted, shirtless, in my jeans from yesterday, having not cared to get changed. I was a wreck. A hideous and gruesome wreck. I have been since the thoughts went and made me cenile six days ago. No ones sees it, but I've always been a good actor. Well, good at hiding, in this case. But, it is the weekend, so there's no reason to care about my actions and appearance now. Especially when my parents have been gone for the past few days on some stupid trip I didn't care to listen about or go on with them. Happy Saturday, Patrick. So, along with it being the weekend and my state of mind, not only am I a mental mess, I'm a physical mess too. Clear as the hateful sunshine, you can clearly see I have an issue going on right now. A bad one. My eyes are red and puffy from crying for hours on end, my hair is sticking out in all different directions, my cheeks blotched, my complexion so much more pale than what I've had my entire life and I've been sleepless since Wednesday. I've made myself invisible to the world since after school today, Friday.

My three friends have been blowing up my phone with texts and calls, Skype calls and Snapchats. Joe, Andy and Pete are persistant little buggers, they are. But, everytime I see a notification, I let it go unread, and everytime they call, I let it ring. I don't even silence my phone or decline the calls... How pathetic is that? The only time I've picked up my phone is when my parents called to check on me a few hours ago at around nine. Of course, I lie my brains out, telling them I'm doing fine, when I just want to die, I force a laugh they can't recognize as fake, when I just want to cry and scream at the top of my lungs, I tell them I'm safe, when in reality I'm in extreme danger of committing my own murder. I don't call it suicide, because that's just overused and an idiotic word. So I call it a self-committed murder. Works for me, I guess...

I look at my phone as it goes off again next to me on my bed, showing a new text from Peter. I look at the newly cracked screen to take notice of the text, seeing some of the words he typed showing on the lock screen. This time, I decide to read just the one text for some forsaken reason. I wipe my teary blue eyes with the palm of my hand, picking up my phone and unlocking it. I couldn't care less about what the words made out at this point, but I go on to reading anyway.

Text from: Pete

12:16am

Patrick, Pat, please. Please just talk to one of us. Andy and Joe and I have been texting you and whatnot for hours now. I'm literally having a breakdown not knowing what's going on with you. 'Trick, you never ignore us. Ever. We're freaking out here at my place. I know you're awake. So do Andy and Joe. What is wrong? Talk. Please, Patrick. Text back. Let us know you're still alive. You left school crying yesterday, we're worried! We don't want to have you hurting when we could be there for you, buddy. You of all people don't deserve to be alone. Get back to me, Joe or Andy soon. Or else we're coming over. You know damn well I have the spare key. You've got three minutes or we're on our way over. Please, say sonething. I'm honestly begging. All three of us have been for hours.