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My dad's been an alcoholic since he was like, eighteen. Now, my mother is becoming one too. For the second night in a row, she's drunken herself stupid. And I don't know what to do, because I'm worried sick about her, but at the same time I know that she's NOT my responsibility.

In March of 2011, my mom moved out of my dad's house and took me and my three younger brothers with her. The next year could only be described as "hell." NOW my brilliant parents have decided to put us all through hell AGAIN so my dear old mother can move back into the same house as the man who cheated on her for twenty years.

I can't deal with this. I've never been so tempted to finish off my medicine bottle or cut just a little deeper.  But I can't EVEN cut because my blade is at home in my dresser drawer. I just wish this all would end. So here I am, typing up a blog I bet no one will read at 2:43 in the morning... wishing that some freak accident would just end this all so I don't have to do it myself.

I was riding my bike today for the first time in a few months. My dad's street is like an arc off the main road, and his house is at the bottom of two fairly large hills. As I was riding, I could hear the wind go so fast by my ears I couldn't hear anything. I almost didn't see the big Yukon SUV coming towards me until the last minute and I swerved out of the way. When I feel as shitty as I do now, I wonder why I didn't just let the car hit me. Or why I didn't stick my hand in the fire this afternoon. Or why I didn't jump in the green pool and hold my breath until my chest ached.

Its no wonder the social worker at my school wants me to go to consueling. She doesn't want to call it therapy, because she doesn't think I'm terribly mentally unstable. But god, am I cutting it close. If I looked, I could probably find something to cut with amongst my dad's tools. He and my mom are redoing a lot of the interior of the house- mostly electrical and paint jobs. Pocket knives scare me and intrigue me at the same time. Does that mean I'm crazy?

I'm not supposed to write "pro-self-descrution" or "pro-suicide," as instructed in the 7 rules listed at the top of this page. But I don't know how much I care anymore. Its like, maybe if I kill myself, other people won't. That doesn't even make sense. I try to help other people and I can't even help myself. How pathetic is that.

I don't want to watch TV, because I don't want to watch sitcoms about families who argue and work it out at the end of the 22 minutes. Screw the Brady Bunch and George Lopez and even F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I wish i was a TV character. Everything works out in the end for them and they're all happy. Well that's not real life. 22 years could go by and you still might not be happy.

In September of 2012, it will be two years since I started cutting. Maybe I'll celebrate.