After months of self harm, deep cuts, that I still see clearly years later. Trying my best to hide it, it was eventually found. I was told by family that I needed stitches, but I was too stubborn. I managed to fix myself up good enough, with what was around me. They tried to get me "help", but I was again, too stubborn and managed to get them off my back. I knew what that would lead to.
School was a literal hell. It was time to go.
Overdosed on a bunch of random shit. Didn't even care what it was, I was desperate. Just anything I could find. Massive handful of it didn't kill me. I lay down in my bed to die and close my eyes. I wake up to my family panicking, and I throwing it all back up. Blacking in and out. Once where I woke, again getting me into the truck, and finally, being dragged into the hospital.
As I wake up, I was told that I was lucky to be alive, that they just managed to "save" me. Was I really "saved" or was I denied peace? I don't know.