A/N: Trigger warning! This story features a suicidal character with depression and self-destructive behavior.
Today I bought myself a journal since, according to my therapist, I need it. The black journal is pretty simple with plain pages. Despite that, however, it is a little bit costly. I think it is an investment, though. If this will end my silence, then good. If it will not, then I guess I will have to try something else. This will be good for me so I can monitor my thoughts. There are three rules for every entry, though:
1. three words only
2. must mean something
3. must be true
The three rules are on the first page as my first official entry. I am making an exception for it since it is on the first page. I refuse to write more than three words per entry because I have a problem with words and how others abuse them. Words are too powerful. It can build, destroy or kill a person and his or her ego just like how people have hurt me by simply talking or saying more than what they should say ever since it happened. I am aware that I am at fault, but all their questioning and blaming have crushed me more and more.
I close the journal, stare at the cover and wonder if writing will truly make me heal. I place the journal and the pen under my pillow, turn off the lights in my bedroom, lie on my bed, pull my blanket towards my body, and close my eyes.
I just want everything to be okay again.