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worldlywise261

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<div style="border:1px #ccc solid; background-image:url('/images/ray.gif'); font-family:arial; width:200px; padding:5px;"><center><div style="font-size:20px;"><a href="/story/worldlywise261/34795">Recovering Suicidal Teenage Journal-Part 1</a></div><table><tr><td width="50"><div style="color:#2CC362; font-size:15px; padding-top:4px; background-image:url('/images/profratebg.gif'); background-repeat:no-repeat; width:44px; height:26px; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; vertical-align:middle; padding-top:8px; padding-left:1px; " valign="top">3</div></td><td><div style="height:100px;width:100px; padding-top:9px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url(/images/storyCover.png);"><a href="/story/worldlywise261/34795"><div style="margin-left:9px; __padding:0px; height:90px; width:70px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url('http://www.testriffic.com/storyfiles/34795.jpg');"></div></a></div></td></tr></table></center></div>

+ 2	Recovering Suicidal Teenage Journal-Part 2
+ 3	Recovering Suicidal Teenage Journal-Part 1
+ 2	No Ordinary Mystery
+ 2	Crisis in the Health Care System

Recovering Suicidal Teenage Journal

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“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

-Plato

Prologue

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Well, this is not really a journal. Just one of those cheap writing books, which the hospital gave to me.

As you can tell, I am recovering from my attempted suicide. It wouldn’t be the first time either. But this is something to do while in this place. I know I will be back here.

Just because. I am not pretty, I am not smart, and I sure hell don’t know why I’m still here.

Sometimes my parents are right about me. And that annoys me.

I have a rather love-hate relationship with my parents, more like leaning towards the hate part. My parents are keeping me in a psychiatric ward, on suicide watch again, and won’t let me out till I am healed.

But don’t they know?

I am not pretty.

I am dumb.

And I have no purpose being here. Really I don’t.

I have to write in this notebook about my “feelings.” According to my doctor.

Well let me tell you, my name is Anna, and I feel annoyed.

I guess you can call me Anna the annoyed teenager. Especially since I am sure my psychiatric (or doctor) is going to read this someday.

But don’t bother trying to listen to my tale. Because doc, you really don’t know how I feel. And why should I let you know how I feel?

I guess here’s the tale of the recovering suicidal teenager. But I might be lucky the next time!

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