Editors' note: The following piece was written by a student as a letter to a piece of paper about what it's like to be clinically depressed and suicidal. He/she is currently under the supervision of professionals for depression. For privacy purposes, the writer of this article is using a pseudonym.

On Being Depressed

Lizzie Borden

Depression is like being drafted. It isn't your choice, you're scared as hell, you have to fight to stay alive, and after it's all over, you don't really want to talk about it. Since you're just a piece of paper, I suppose I'll regale you with some stories. Paper can't ask prying questions, grimace, sigh, or hug me.

One time I bled so much I passed out. Very messy. I remember coming to and wondering if I had been sleeping or awake and just couldn't remember what I was doing.

When I say I bled, it's because I made myself. Bleed, I mean. I had a collection of razors that I ripped out of Schick's or box cutters I stole from Office Depot. The only thing I've ever stolen is a package of box cutters. That just confirms my stupidity.

Wait. That's not the beginning. No, forget it, I'm not going to think. Fuck chronological order. Knowing how old I was when I fell into Lake Depression or the first time I sliced my arm into ribbons doesn't make a difference. They happened. I don't remember the details anyway.

So I digress. There are people I have met who have pulled me up and some who have pushed me down. Somebody asked me how I expected to wear a wedding dress with my arms looking like that. Or, that one time I was told that it was only going to get harder as I grow up, how easy I had it right now, and how self-serving and asinine I was being to even dare think I had problems. Good old assurance and the like. But I've had the opposite, too.

I've been on the phone at 2 a.m. crying, being listened to. At midnight, I have been picked up so I could sleep for hours instead of forever. I like to remember those parts when I can. You know, things that don't make me shut my eyes, clench my fists and take deep breaths just to keep from going on a rampage of self-hate.

Sometimes it was like I couldn't breathe because I was choking on tears that wouldn't come out. Other times, I cried until I was blind and nauseated.

It's not fair when there's just one thing you want and you can't get it. Me, I wanted it to stop. True, if I died, I wouldn't feel relief, but I wouldn't feel pain either. This isn't meant to be dramatic. It just…is. Getting drunk and taking Vicodin, cutting my arms open. It didn't work. Blood clots, pills break down, alcohol absorbs.

Eventually, I just wanted to sleep. Death was too difficult, and I wasn't very good at dying. Time goes by like magic when you aren't awake to witness it. Sleep is still what I want most days. I take the little blue pills. When I don't eat, it helps. That's another thing, BP, I don't. eat.

Sometimes I'm not hungry, but I also want to see how long I can go. It isn't to lose weight. Sometimes I get so hungry I want to cry. It makes it hard to walk. I just let my body eat away at itself since it has nothing better to do.

Music works. A lot of times I didn't feel like moving; it would ache. When music is on, it's okay. I know the songs will always have the same lyrics and chords. Songs don't hate you because your arms are scarred up or because all you thought about today was how to close the suicide letter to your best friend. It loves me no matter what.

I'm learning, binder paper. A good magician has to practice, practice, practice and not give away secrets. I used to think I was a magician. I could bleed without pain, stay awake 22 hours without fatigue, starve without being hungry, overdose and not die.

Depression made me miss people. I would hang up the phone after talking to my best friend and a minute later I would miss her like it had been a thousand years and a day. It made me sick, the loneliness. I was surrounded by people and all by myself. I remember missing people while I was still talking to them. It hurts my chest to miss people. It's a steady, dull ache like there's a lead brick there. Breathing gets hard. It seems like my heart is really wasting away and breaking like in a cheesy romance novel.

I don't remember a lot of days. Most were a uniform gray blur. Sometimes I can't remember a few hours ago. The first things I forget are when I'm happy.

I know I tried hard to die. I remember puking, bleeding, crying, moaning, and shaking. Not so much laughing.

Even worse, every time I was happy, in the back of my mind, I knew it'd stop. The only constant seemed to be pain.

Setting low expectations was a method. When you're expecting a flat surface, the tiniest pebble or bump surprises you. It was like pain brought pleasure, and it's how I functioned.

When someone else cleans up your bleeding arms, it's the strangest thing. I noticed everything about her hands. They were cool, not clammy, and her nails were pretty and perfect. Everything felt smooth and beautiful.

I take pills a lot. I've taken up to 12 Benadryl at a time, just to sleep. But I have also taken No Doz, and those blue pills, general aspirin, some prescription pills my mom used to take. The last thing I have is some Inderol, but I don't know what it's for. I've taken them anyway though. To forget, to sleep, to remember, to stay awake. If I die, then I die. I stopped trying with pills.

Sometimes I forget where I've been and wonder where I'm going. Only I can choose what I want. Right now, I want to be the magician. Poof, it's all right. It's just an illusion. Never you mind, B.P., I'm all right.

There isn't any amazing finale. I'm not dead after trying to get that way. I have iron anemia from blood loss, sleeping problems, and I'm on medication. My trichtillomania is coming back - so no fairy-tale ending, but no horror story, either.

You're just a damned piece of paper. I don't owe you a blockbuster ending. Besides, the little blue pills are kicking in, I'm getting tired, and my hand hurts.