I was eleven when I knew for the first time that I didn't want to live anymore.

I was thirteen the first time I said it aloud, and the way that my voice wavered in the night petrified me for the first time in two years.

I say that I've tried to kill myself three times.

When I was fourteen, I almost jumped off the fourth story roof of my grandmother's house in the middle of a thunderstorm, the lightening giving me enough light to text my friend at the time, to try and get her to save me from the horrors in the house and the danger of the slippery roof.

I didn't know that my subconscious was trying to save itself.

It took me a about a year and a half to realize that.

Two weeks after that fateful night, I was home alone in my old house before I moved sophomore year. My veins were too full and I wanted to let some of the pressure out. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a metal fork, knowing that I would never go back down to get the butchers knife that I so desperately wanted to use. I locked myself in my bedroom, knowing that it was more of a mental block then a physical one, even if it took a year and a half to grasp that fully.

I was dragging the surprisingly sharp fork across my wrist, leaving my pain receptors at an all time high on pain and my skin red and broken, but still not bleeding.

I wouldn't bleed for the first time until I was fifteen, even if I was hurting myself on again and off again since I was nine years old, knowing that the pain was wonderful, even if I could tell no one about it. Even back then, I knew that I'd keep it a secret until my mother caught me with the scabs two weeks before sophomore year started.

My life was becoming everything that I'd never wanted. I was moving an hour and a half away from my best friend and the love of my life with a mother who refused to drive me twenty minutes away from our new home, let alone to the old one that my father had taken over yet again. New scars were forming so quickly that I didn't even notice when my arms and thighs were completely covered.

People would try and get me to stop, and then stop caring completely.

It was March 31 when I truly tried taking my life for the first time. My mother had gone on a two hour drunken rant about how I fucked up, and how I always fuck up, and about how I should know how to properly do things at the ripe old age of sixteen. I was tired, and raw, and clean for almost two weeks. Or maybe it was three.

I was crying in my bedroom, all lights stripped except for the streetlights trying to force their way in through my windows. My throat was almost as raw as scratched off skin, and I was left with the highest count of new scratches, all of them red, and oozing, and sticking to the clothing I didn't want to wear anymore because of how my anxiety turned the cloth into chains.

My body betrayed my mind. I rose, my mind still sitting on the floor as my body searched for the yarn rope I had from marching band at my old school as a souvenir of winning second place in States, as well as Nationals.

My body tied a noose, similar to the one I tied with my ace bandage a few weeks before, fastening it around my neck and not my chest. I slipped the new noose over my neck and pulled it as tight as I possibly could, leaving me with stars dancing in from of my raining eyes.

My mind fought for control over my body, and somehow managed to loosen the noose, letting me catch a single breath before my body won, pulling the yarn tighter once more, forcing my breath out of my aching lungs. My mind was struggling to get my body to listen to him, her hands still holding the rope in place. He won. Then she won for the last time that evening.

After not passing out after the third time pulling the rope so tight that I swore I was supposed to be bruising, she gave up, calling me pathetic for not even being able to die properly.

I'm writing this with raw thighs and an ever rawer throat, the anxiety in the air suffocating my already malfunctioning lungs. I'm sixteen. It's almost October. I'll be seventeen in just over four months. I never thought that I would make it this far. I always thought that I'd kill myself before junior year.

In some ways, I was right. I killed off the person who doesn't care what other people think. I killed off the person who can stand on their own two feet. I killed off the person who doesn't need other people in order to live. I killed off the person who cares about other people more then themself.

In other ways, I was wrong. I'm still breathing, aren't I?

Yes. I'm still breathing with a raw throat, and malfunctioning lungs, and a heart that does not want to beat anymore.