Last Saturday, I talked to my counselor, and he told me that if Zoloft doesn't work within 2 weeks...
I am going to be sent to a sort of psychiatric ward. Other kids my age will be there, some of which will have problems like mine. People at the place will watch me and find out more about me.
I sure hope Zoloft doesn't work, because I would love a chance to be observed by lots of people, to get away from my family, and meet other kids with problems.
I wonder what would happen if I lied and said that it wasn't working.
Last night I was feeling pretty bad. I would have cut if I hadn't lost my razor.
I can't believe I lost it because I had it hidden somewhere, and I kept finding it when I didn't want it, but now it's lost.
I mean, I guess it's good since I can't cut even if I want to, but it's not that I want to cut as much as I need my friend. The blade is my friend.
Losing the blade was like losing Frankie, the dead spider who hung from the ceiling. I named him Frankie and talked to him once in a while.
But then he disappeared, and I am still mourning for him. When I look up at the ceiling and see that Frankie isn't there, I feel bad. I miss him.
I miss my blade. I talked to it a little, too. (usually just terms of endearment because I loved it) I have kissed my blade. I use it to talk to my blood, too (more terms of endearment, but more lustful and more... loving). So I've lost two friends because I lost it...