I didn't get any sleep last night. I'm scared. help me. I've got to write an English essay first up. I can't do it. I've written a couple of paragraphs as practice and they do not make any sense, reading over them. I want to be able to do well and I can't with this lack of sleep and feeling as low as this. I've stopped crying for about ten minutes in the last three hours. when suicide becomes a more feasible option than writing an essay... shit. I'm in trouble. I don't know what to do.

I feel so lost.
I didn't think I'd feel like this again.
I'm scared of what I might do.
help

There is good.

I need to reflect on the good days instead of just giving you a reflection of the bad, and my negative scribblings. And they do exist, though I may not give the most accurate reflection of that.
I mean, this Saturday just passed I had a fantastic day. It started out with a smile and a lift in his arms, and making a public display of affection and foolishness that was directed at each other but rebounded from the walls and filled the whole empty area with love, as well as rolled eyes from cynical observers. I'm a lucky girl to have found this depth of emotion at such a young age, though I've probably sacrificed other areas as a result. Just being able to bury myself in his scent and nuzzle into his body. Ugh, I hate that I'm so corny when I used to be such a cynic. Hypocrisy at its finest. But gosh, if someone like who I used to be can be transformed from a cynic to a believer there's hope for everyone. Even if this relationship ends bitterly - though I doubt it will- I can still manage to look back on these memories and draw a smile from my mind. And that's got to be out there for everyone, this hope in humanity musn't be fostered from nothing, love is real and common, no matter if you feel it young or old, long or short lived. Sometimes you just need to switch your focus.
On the twenty second we have been dating for a year. And it's been the best of my life. Probably coupled with the worst moods, but in general it has been an increasingly positive year and will hopefully have increasingly positive outcomes. I love him and I'm glad to have a physical reminder of that love about my neck and around my finger at all times.
On a wholly different note, I'm learning to drive. I'm really surprised at how supportive my dad has been in relation to that. He;s bought a car which he'll give to me when I turn 17 at the end of the year, and so far he's given me two lessons. He's been pretty sparing in his praise, but he's been praising, saying well done on more than a couple of occasions on the few hours I've spent in the drivers seat with him at my side. And seeing as mum needs to be actively involved in it, he's been talking to her and apparently his praise hasn't been at all sparing in talking to her about me. And my dad, if you can understand this, has very little belief in praising, so when you get praise you know you deserve it. As well, in my second lesson, he let me drive home on a main road with traffic lights and everything, which I suppose signifies some trust in me.

She convulses. Sobs wreck her thin body and her muscles spasm under the influence of what she is no longer a part of. She lives, but barely. Her distorted grin is a reflection of expectations and reality. She is not what she wanted and she is less than everyone hoped for. She clings to her shadows who have ripped and torn at her clothes until her skirt sits about her hips and her lies are the only thing covering her modesty. she has reduced herself to this, and for what? Men who dance an endless dance above her, sweaty, sweaty bodies with guts hanging loose and the stench of cider on their breath, but more importantly, the clink of coins in their pocket and the promise of the sweet sensations that she knows she can get. She's good at this, she knows it, they all know it, that's why they come to her. But she is stretched to her fullest and any idea that this is an act connected with love is gone, gone. 'Fuck 'em. Fuck the lot of 'em, they can rot in hell.' Rot in hell as they rot inside her, as their seed is planted with futility. At least she doesn't have to worry about kids, that concern was dismissed when she first went into the business. One botched abortion and that chance died. She supposes it's a positive thing, but she would have liked the opportunity- what if she sorted herself out, got some blue collar bloke to marry her? What then? But no. Not at all, none left of that now. She's having enough trouble getting the money anymore for her habit. She makes what she needs, she gets a decent amount, but that's only what you get from the streets. You need a bit of class to work the high end. Even in her convulsions she sneers. Class? A whore and class? You wouldn't think so. She cannot raise herself from the ground, she is stuck on the piss stained tiles of a public bathroom and she can hear a mans grunting and a whores moaning in the stall next door, and some sense of decency stirs in her, wants her to get up and hammer on the wood and protest against public indecency. Then she realises, she isn't a schoolgirl anymore, she's one of them and a hypocrite to boot. And mummy and daddy had such high expectations; wasn't she going to be a lawyer, or a doctor? But no, she fell in with the wrong crowd, with the wrong habits, and now with her last convulsion her leg slips into the stall next door just as the whores stilettoed foot stabs into the ground once he's reached his climax. But it's not the ground, it's her leg, and when she feels the heel break her skin she's off into the world she knew she was aimed at since she collapsed in the cubicle.

I exist.

I exist as a human being.
I exist physically. I am an almost physically developed and matured female, perhaps not in the psychosocial sense of the word, but physically. My body is ready for the situations it may be given, though my mind is not.
I exist sexually. I am aware of how people use their body according to needs and desires. I know the power one can have, being in control of their own body, I know the disempowerment one can suffer when difficult or negative choices are made in regards to it. I'm responsible for my sexual self and I'll take full responsibility for anything that happens as a result.
I exist mentally. I'm fully aware of my mental processes and know that I, like most others, possess the capability for intelligence and am attempting to utilise it. However, part of my psyche involves not existing to my full capacity due to the effects my negativity has on my mental capabilities. And I'm trying to change that.
I exist emotionally. I am touched by sadness and love and anger, I react with them explosively, not accordingly. And one can't erase their reactions, nor can they predict, or to an extent, control their actions. And my actions, reactions, and emotions are once again prompting me towards one specific action, though I feel more determined to sway the other way than I used to be.

But I don't exist fully. I don't know who I am. I don't let myself exist. And when other people don't recognise that I do it makes it more difficult.

I was prescribed anti-depressants today. I begin them tomorrow. I can't persuade myself to have hope for them.