Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, was one of the best books I have ever read if that tells you anything. It probably doesn't as it doesn't tell me anything either.
Wasn't that a very depressing book?
It was soo beautiful. I read it a few years before my younger brother committed suicide. I don't think the two saw life in the same way at all. Sylvia was like a exquisite butterfly whose wings had frozen solid. She still loved life but had become unable to fly and was watching herself fall.
There were also a couple years in high school when car crashes seemed to be a trend. God that hurts. I will never forget walking into the house where a girl I dated for a little bit, very quiet girl, very beautiful inside. Both of her parents were home but silence was crushing. They a very open floor plan with hardwood floors and big windows. The kind of environment where sound would bounce off easily. The silence was crushing. One could fill that house with a hundred people and the most noticeable thing would be her absence.
My mother said she heard the pain seems to get a lot less after about two years and she found that to somewhat the case. I can't say. Maybe I just don't like letting go of the pain because it is what I have the most of.
OK, now I really am jumping out the fucking window. (sorry if I misspelled anything, I am not proofreading that.)
I tried the head in the oven thing, but it was an electric range. Took a while for my hair to grow back.
the damn suicide prevention line wanted a credit card number!
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