Two years ago I moved to California. I started to get better. I could smile. I could plan for the future. I could breathe without that unbearable and excruciating feeling in my chest. A few months ago i was clean and excited to graduate high school, to live on my own, to grow up, to make plans. A month ago, couldn’t wake up in the mornings, I couldn’t breathe, nighttime felt like hell, daytime was worse, I started getting really bad again. Three weeks ago I relapsed after two years, in a moment where I couldn’t even focus, I was so out of it, but in my mind I could hear the screaming, the guilt, I didn’t care. Last week I made the realization that I’ve never expected to live past twenty. Now I’m just waiting to walk the stage on Tuesday so I can put myself in a mental hospital in order to get some kind of help before things get so bad i do something I can’t take back. Happy 18 I suppose.