The one and only final cut that I cannot do.
Saturday, 01/11/03 - 2:16 pm.

I can't sleep. He is always there. I talked to him online last night. I asked him what the acronym he "mentioned days ago" meant and he said he didn't remember what the acronym was [*insert your own comment here*].

As usual, we stopped talking for a while and then he goes: I have to go and logs out, not even giving me time to say "ok, bye". It's just an insignificant deed, but it does bother me a lot.

It took me hours to fall asleep. I kept thinking of him and past events. He never really loved me..., I concluded. He never did. And then, to force myself to be strong for future time's sake, I imagined him holding his (future) girlfriend's hand, walking together.

Of course it didn't work. At least not in a positive way. It made me cry even more. I thought I had run out of tears, but apparently my body has restored them already. I cried, wondering what went wrong. Thinking if I put too much pressure on him. Did I? I don't recall dying for him to ask me to be "officially" together (as in "boyfriend and girlfriend"). For me we were together already, and that was enough. I never thought of asking him for anything but what he wanted to give me. I never thought he wasn't ready. I never wondered if he was. I never wondered if I were. I just didn't think of being "ready". For me he was the one.

I wonder why do I still think of him as "the one". The only one. Simeon says that it's obvious why I think of him as the one: everytime you're in love, the person you are in love with becomes "the one". How many "ones" have been in your life? In mine...just him. I've been in love with a few people, I've had a few people in love with me...but never at the same time. Except for him. I even thought of marrying him, for fuck's sake! Of course, in the future, not at the time...but still, saying "this is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with" doesn't happen too often, let alone in my life.

He's gone. As simply as that sentence: he is gone.

I dreamed of was a long dream, and I'd feel his arms wrapped around me often. But mostly the dream was about the two of us walking around, laughing, being next to each other. I don't remember how nor why, but his face started to bleed, and I grabbed some cotton and cleaned up his face. I was looking at his face, he was looking at mine.

The sad part is that, suddenly, my parents come in the dream, and are looking at me, very upset. They tell me I've spent way too much time with him, and that I should go back to play with my rag doll (? the Aerosmith song?)...I tell them I can't, because he's a guest (there had been a party at my house and he was the one who stayed longer, after everybody else had left)...I'm about to put my arms around his neck and tell them that he's my friend (or my boyfriend, I can't remember...I do remember praying in my head for them to understand) but then I woke up.

I wake up, and I find with disappointment that my wrists are not stained with dry blood, and that I'm still alive.


That's another part of last night. After maybe an hour and a half of thinking of him, I focused on death.

I wanted so bad to cut. But it's my parents, my siblings, my sibling's significant others and their kids...and, well, even Frog. I can't do it, I can't do it, because of them.

But other than that, I want to die. I started to thank God for each person in my family...I did thank Him for everything He's given me. I don't even deserve that, and probably someone else would appreciate them more than I.

Then I imagined my sheets wet, stained with blood coming out of my wrists. I imagined I wouldn't see this day. I got so caught up in this "dream", that at a certain point, I said unconsciously: this is it...I'm finally going away.... To me it was just a matter of time. In my mind, I was dying for real. Somebody would find my dead body this morning, maybe my mom. Their lives would go on.

I've spent the entire day thinking of how to make it look like an accident. Because, part of me says I don't have to live beyond 18. I've always thought that. I don't know why. I never knew where to go. I still don't know where to go. I don't think there's something that could make me feel alive again. And if there is, I don't care to find out. I want to die before I turn 18.

Or at least, slit my wrists. One. And I can't conceibe it...I can't think of how to make it look like an accident.

It's easy to pretend you scream in pain, rush out of your bedroom, straight to where your mom is, pretending to be oh, so horrified by the terrible accident: you slit one wrist and it's bleeding. I'm bleeding, mom! It hurts!. She'd nurse your wound and that'd be it. How did it happen?!?!. That's something I still haven't figured out.

Scissors? How in the world would you slit your wrist with scissors by accident?

I don't know how to justify it.

But I need to cut. Right there. Ankles: check. Thights: check. Stomach, chest: check. Arms: check. Wrists: how do you justify it (to the eyes of my family only; I don't care what the rest of the world thinks)?

I could do it and try to hide it. They haven't seen a scar in my body since I started (september?), except for one, that will never disappear. I could hide it. But there's always a possibility they might notice. Why didn't you tell me?!?!?!. It's too risky.

I don't think I can gather enough courage and selfishness to kill myself these upcoming weeks. But I need to do something big.

I'll keep thinking.


There's a beautiful picture of The Beatles in the newspaper today.

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