I want to break shit.

I really, really do. And I've always known I wanted to break things, just never realized that this impulse is constant.

My tightening grip on a door handle, the aggravation when I push open shower curtains, how I tug the covers around me when I go to bed, yes. This is what it's like to stop yourself from destroying everything in your wake.

Upon more thought, I am considering a conclusion of this being one of the reasons I self injure and one of the reasons I am immensely suicidal. It's when I want to rip things apart the most that I begin wondering how painful it would be to hang myself and start shredding my leg to bits.

It's been implanted into all of us that when we're in a house or restaurant, we must use our inside voices. We must be careful when handling knives and we must be gentle when handling fragile objects. My remaining impulse has always been to shatter them, but I've controlled it. Of course then I would turn to destroying myself.

I'm violent, I will admit. I enjoy rough housing; I've always enjoyed sparring with people and when I'm alone, I fight graphic battles in my head. I sometimes ask people what they imagine doing when they're angry or upset. They reply that they beat people up in their minds. I wonder what they'd think about me if I told them I torture my victims, whether innocent or guilty, in graphic detail before killing them. It's the only thing that can calm me down.

But after a while, I run out of energy and my father calls me to do chores around the house and every object I place I want to simply throw down, to see it shatter into hundreds of pieces before turning to the walls and beating them in with his antique metallic jugs or chairs. Destruction, destruction destruction destruction! That is what I want, what I need! I feel as though it may be the only thing that can save me from myself.

I've been eying more plastic bags, I have them laying around my room now just in case. I left a suicide message on the answering machine of my stepmom's cell phone the other day before I attempted. But the endorphins kicked in and I ripped the bag from my face - it's amazing, the defenses your body sets up. I had been expecting it the third time and STILL I ripped the bag from my face. It's as if deep down, I don't really want to die.

"Life gets better" they say, yeah, but then it goes to even worse shit than before. "But you have so much to give" but you aren't giving me back as much.

Fact: I'm a brilliant writer.

Fact: I'm a brilliant singer

Fact: I pick up on things faster than others

Fact: I am hilarious

Fact: I make people feel good

Fact: When I dress up, I am gorgeous

Fact: I am talented enough to influence the world

Fact: None of this helps me at all.

Yes, this is all wonderful. But none of it makes me happy. Not for longer than a day at most. Everyday I am living an infernal existence and I have NO REASON for feeling this way. I am miserable. I force myself out of bed, I force myself to stay AWAY from bed (right now, I am failing), I cant tell anymore when I'm up or down, death seems like a much better option that life.

Sylvia Plath once called this sort of existence a 'bell jar'. And you know, she's right. I don't think she could be any farther from the truth. I'm always being watched, you know. But this predicament is one sided and I can never join in.