Keeping yourself alive is really hard. My life is defined by numbers; my age, my pin number, my credit score, the amount of boyfriends I may have had, the amount of nudes I have taken, the amount I pay on my oyster card, the poor pay I receive, the subsequent pay rise I requested, the price of the shoes I want, the number of days it took me to decide to get them, the amount of time I spent regretting the purchase due to the amount of hours I don’t have free to wear those shoes and take the amount of steps my pacer app will tell me I have taken to counterbalance the amount of minstrels I ate writing the amount of words on this page. Numbers. I’ve always had dislike for them. I suppose its easy to blame my mother for that because ever since she wanted me to be an accountant I wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. Or maybe I have myself to blame because I could never get my head around them. But it’s funny because not only was my birth defined by numbers, the life I have lived will also be defined by them, as will my death. Nothing but another number. Once my memory fades I will be the *insert number here* individual to have committed suicide in the UK in another number – 2016.

I wish my life could be defined by something else. Emotions. I look back and think about situations and sometimes I can remember what I felt. It fills me up inside. I like to be able to feel things like that. Other times it’s blank and I see it but I don’t feel it. Like I’m watching a movie without music. I want to go back so I can remember what I felt but it’s a blur and I almost start to blame myself for letting a memory become black and white. But how could I possibly control that? I can’t and yet its one of the many things I try to blame on myself.

They say at the time of your death, your whole life flashes before you. Since this is a very deliberate and considered death, I may have to flash it before my own eyes. My earliest memory is being put into a big crib by my mother. I’m drifting in and out of sleep and I’m gripping a milk bottle. As I drift back into sleep, I see myself in a car. A car which is driving through a car wash. There’s no one in it except for me and so I’m terrified and to make matters worse the giant brushes that spin round and around have evil faces on and are coming after me. The memory ends there. It’s so funny now that I think back on it. It’s an emotional memory this one because I feel the same fear and anxiety that I did at that tiny age thinking the bad brush guys were after me.

I can’t remember the specific age I was but I was feeling kind of sombre. I had just fought with my two sisters about the playstation. They always played on it and I never got the chance. I was begging for a go and they told me if I waited long enough, my turn would arrive. I lay down on the floral sofa, fed up. As I lay there, nothing to do, boredom numbing my skull I thought ‘what’s the point of being awake today if I can’t do what I wanted to do’ which eventually turned into the much bigger and more complex questions of ‘why am I alive’, ‘what’s my purpose’ and ‘what’s the meaning of life’. I know – I was such a weird child to be thinking about the meaning of life after a fight over a playstation but I was rather dramatic. I eventually came to the conclusion that I didn’t know. But what I decided then was that I was going to be great at whatever I decided to be. Now I think back on it I guess that was my way of giving meaning and purpose to life. I think that’s the case for some of us. What we choose to do in terms of career, is what we think will give us some sort of meaning, purpose or define us. I asked myself the very same questions quite recently and again I came up with the same answer. I don’t know. I just want to be great. My life is defined by numbers so you can see how frustrating it is when no one can give me a number for how many exhausting train journeys, how many cold meals and how many tears I will have to endure before I achieve the kind of greatness that will satisfy me?

How many more times will I need to remember my mother’s face when she came lunging at me with a knife, how many times will I have to think back to the act I was forced to put on in front of social services and how many times will someone tell me it’s wrong to hold that against my mother? How many dark memories do you have to leave behind to become the great person you want to be? How many people should I forgive? How many people should I ask for forgiveness?

People used to call me sensitive when I was younger. Now they say I have anger issues, that I come across as deeply saddened and maybe I am. It’s difficult being me. There’s a constant and never ending exhaustion that I still haven’t gotten used to and my mind is the biggest mess. It’s like a giant mind map of brilliant ideas I have that with the right amount of finance, talent, business acumen and good timing could become something that would make me feel great. I feel like I currently lack all of those things. Its like I look into one idea and find I can’t do it due to one reason or another, become frustrated, lose focus and move on to the next. Imagine a watercolour palette with the most beautiful, breath-taking colours you have ever seen for someone to come along and dip their paintbrush into each one without ever cleaning the brush. Then you’re left with this clouded mess that once could have been the equipment required to make something brilliant but just isn’t capable of that anymore.

It’s taken me 1057 words to be able to say I feel like an empty shell of the great person I wanted to become. The people I considered closest to me are the ones that have no belief in me. They are also the ones who I have tried to go to for help but they just told me to go to professionals for help. I don’t want to go to a stranger. I want to talk to the people I thought were my support network. Why am I being ignored. I have been crying out for help but no one noticed and I don’t want to be a burden… I just wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t recommend me to go to therapy and would help me deal with my issues by just listening to me. Hearing what I have to say.

The only person who ever tells me he loves me is my best friend. He’s so busy in his life even he doesn’t have time to lend an ear. He’s so happy and I feel like a dark cloud about to ruin all that every time I want to tell him what’s happening inside my head. I feel I have become a ball of negative energy that no one wants to be around. And its ok because I don’t want to be around me either. My best friend really helped me to love myself and I did but I think the effects were temporary. I don’t even recognise the person I see in the mirror anymore. Maybe I don’t have a good heart. Maybe my personality is crap.

If I hadn’t smiled in a day my mother would come and sit down next to me and tell me to show her my smile because she missed it. She would ask me what’s wrong and give me a cuddle. It would be a miracle if she even noticed how deeply unhappy I am right now.

I have so much love and respect for so many people. It’s sad that I won’t be able to tell them all that’s how I feel about them before going. I just want them to know that I pray they become the greatness they wanted to see and even be in this world.

I believe everyone has the capability, and some also have the ambition to become great. But not everyone is destined for it.

I don’t think greatness was written for me.