November 8th
I'm hearing them again. The voices. They don't go away. Even when the drugs take over my body. Then they just get worse. Louder. But they're never clear. All I can understand is my name. "Cammie…Cammie…"
The only thing that helps me forget about them is the cuts. The deeper they are, the quieter the voices. Of course, Mom and Dad don't know about them. The cuts, that is. Or the drugs. Or the voices. Hell, if they did, they'd send me to one of those mental hospitals like in the movies.
That's why I'm writing this. So that someday, someone will know. If I don't die first.
Of course, I hide this diary under my mattress. The drugs too. And my razor.
My name is Cammie Morgan. I take drugs, and I cut myself to quiet the voices.
Some people may call me an addict or crazy. But for me, it's an escape.