on those nights that i planned my death, the nights that i thought that i would never again see another day, i try to remember the thoughts and things that ran through my mind as i planned my last breath. but once did i ever write in my journal, and though it was by far the most dramatic time that i attempted to do so, it was definately not the time during which i came the closest. i can’t remember what went through my mind at all. i simply remember feeling cold… i always felt tired — emotionally tired. weak, so weak. and angry. angry at my life, angry at what i was going through, angry at all the shit that had to happen to me. you see, back then i wasn’t yet able to block out the bad memories: they were too fresh, and too new. now, as i’m revisited with the pain, i can still feel the shadows of those feelings rushing over me whenever i talk about them. i don’t feel the pain acutely, as i do with all other feelings of the past, strangely. i don’t think i would be able to handle it. i highly dislike family time; it reminds me all too clearly about the past.