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The first post ever.

This is my first post onto this blog. I'm not entirely sure how it'll work out. If it'll be happy or sad. But I guess that's one of life's big mysteries. And if you are reading this, thanks, I guess, for finding my life interesting enough to read about. I'm not entirely sure if I find my life interesting enough to live it all though. Stick around to figure out, I guess.

Just to summarise and help you understand the setting: I am a 16-year-old boy living in outer London. I am Korean but I can speak English fluenly, just like I can speak Korean. I'm not normal. I'm different to a lot of kids at my school. I suffer from MDD (Major Depressive Disorder) at a severe level. I have Asperger Syndrome. I suffer from Fanconi Anaemia and, as a result, I am very weak. I admit, I am depressed often. I am constantly tired. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I cannot speak or I feel as though I'm going to choke. All I can ever do is sit quietly, trying to do passable school work (but failing) and thinking about how insignificant I am. So here we are. I'm hoping this blog will help me see that I'm worth something like the doctor's say. Hoping that it will make me want to live longer. I hope it'll help.
So I'll start where my depression began.


Last summer seemed great. I made a bunch of new friends -- cool ones too. We went out to public gardens with lakes in the warm nights, drank alcohol, laughed and listened to this one guy, nickname "Hedgehog" play Joy Division by The Wombats on guitar. We'd all sing along and think about how happy we were. We'd make a fire and the warmth would make me feel the same way outside that I did inside. Incredibly happy. Sometimes my girlfriend would tag along, and we'd sit a little further away from everyone else, kissing, touching. She was beautiful. A hispanic girl in my school, by far the most beautiful girl there, but most other boys didn't realise because her skirt wasn't too short. She was intelligent, funny and possibly had the sharpest wit I'd ever seen on a human. My friends didn't like her too much, but I think it was because she was hilarious when she was mocking people, specifically them -- but she didn't mock them in a vicious way, more of a merry way! Her codename is "Beautiful".
And things started to go wrong. It began the evenings I had to spend at home, as my mum wasn't going to drive me places three nights in a row. I noticed my dad hadn't been coming home, and, if he did he would sleep on the family sofa, downstairs, in the sitting room. I didn't want to ask but I knew he and my mum had had an argument, and a terrible one. My mum had seemed to despise the man for a very long time, calling him "miserable" constantly. 
I'd sit downstairs on the laptop, as everyone else in the house was asleep and it was my turn to sit downstairs and watch the big TV. I'd chat with my friends on Facebook, planning new things and figuring how much money we'd have to split for alcohol. I'd confide in my closest friend "My dad isn't coming home lately. I'm really worried. What do I do?" He would reply "It's okay, he's probably just out drinking with mates or something." Although I knew this was incredibly far from the reality, I fooled myself into believing it. But deep down, I knew my father wouldn't be there with us much longer.
The more I spent time at home, the more aware of situations I'd become. My younger brother would sit in his room all day, a flood of tears soaking his pillow, and a plan tucked away inside his head. "He's depressed." My mum would say, and leave it at that, refusing to take him to the doctors because the reality of it was far too painful. I would ponder if I should speak to my brother about it, my mind telling me that he was probably having problems at his new secondary school, but I decided against it as me and him never got along anyway.
The next time I went out with my friends and drank, I got incredibly drunk. I was stumbling around everywhere, next to a busy motorway. I threw my toothbrush onto a fire. I was out of my mind. On the walk back to the station, we walked in seperate groups. Two groups were my friends. One group was me and my girlfriend. She held my hand and made sure I could walk properly, as though she was teaching me to walk again. She smelt nice that night, I remember, and her hair felt so soft. She was perfect. So perfect. I began to cry and say things like "My dad's leaving us with no money" and "my brother's going to kill himself and I don't want him to." She'd wipe my tears and say "I promise, they won't." She'd give me a big hug and let everyone else wander away a little further so that they didn't know I was crying. She kissed me with her soft lips and made me forget everything -- I guess you could say she was my solution/cover up to all of my problems -- and she walked me the rest of the way to the station. She would text me about it to, ask me if I'm ok and be supportive. She didn't want me to hurt. I loved her.


I began to argue with my best friends. Both of them. A best friend of four years, codename "Big", and best friend of one year, codename "Ginger". Ginger would say what I was feeling didn't matter and that my dad leaving wasn't his fault. That I was selfish. I was a dick. Big would say "k." No emotional support. Just a "k." And although they knew my parents were splitting up, and they had been through exactly the same thing, they offered no support and no help. They just didn't care if they weren't the victim, after all the times I'd spent cheering them up and being a great friend.
And the very next day my mum told me the truth. My dad had been out, sleeping with other women, making dodgy deals, being a crook. To hear that about the man I looked up to, loved so much, and wanted to make proud more than anything, made me sick to my stomach. I nervously laughed in front of my mum, acting as though I was okay. I didn't care. "I'm just angry." But I knew one day I'd cry in front of her and show her I care. "Don't be upset over him." She'd say. I'll try not to be, mum, for you.
My girlfriend didn't speak to me for days. I wondered what was up. I texted her eight times in a space of two weeks. I was really worried because we would talk everyday. She wouldn't return my calls. She wouldn't reply to my texts. Two weeks before school started and nothing.

It was time to go back to school, September 2012. I sat in my form room, bored as usual, trying to sleep, ignoring all the idiots. Waited outside my girlfriends form room after I was let out early. Nothing. "She's not in." her form tutor said. I knew then something was up. I asked her best friends and they said they hadn't heard from her. I called her home phone: no answer. Nothing. It was as though her and her family disappeared off the face of the Earth. Nothing. A few days later I heard that she'd passed away. Killed herself. Hung herself. She promised me everything was ok. Maybe I needed to promise her the same thing. I missed school for a week and a half and cried a lot. She meant a lot to me. The only person that didn't judge me. She cared about what I had to say, what I felt. And to think that something could have made her that unhappy that she actually went through with it, it kills me inside. She was an Angel, and I loved her. 
A few weeks later, I went over to her house with her best friends to look through her stuff. See if we wanted to keep anything that reminded us of her. I came across her diary. I was tempted to look inside. Find out what had caused her this pain. I stared at it for a while before hiding it away from her friends in my bag. Whatever she put in there she didn't want to tell her friends, I know that for sure. So I decided that I would look at it when I was ready. When I had come to terms with her death. That was the only thing I took from her house.

So you remember my dad leaving? Yes, he left to live with a woman he had an affair with. I still had to see him every now and again to keep him sweet although I hated him for what he' done. I just hoped that the hate would ease up after a while. I barely spoke around him, my brother and sister doing all the talking, and he didn't seem to notice or care, but it was as much as I expected. We saw eachother less frequently because I was often ill due to my Anaemia. He assumed I was making up excuses to stop seeing him and sent me a nasty text. "I get it.  I shan't be bothering you again. You're not worth it." Cue tears. I told my mum. Cue anger. And then he stopped paying everything, he cut off the money. We were broke. And it sucked.
I began crying at school, knowing this was all my fault really. Why couldn't I do anything right? Why couldn't any one bare to stay around me? What was I doing wrong?
And that day, when I came home from school and my mum came home from work, we found my brother in the bath, underneath the water. He wasn't breathing, his eyes glazed over. At thirteen years old, my younger brother, my baby brother, decided that the World was too much for him to bare. He realised nothing made him happy anymore. He left no note, but me and my mum both know why he did it. My mum wept over his body and screamed at me to call an ambulance. I did so, and, as expected, he was dead. January 22 2013, my baby brother drowned himself in a bathtub. Rest in peace, baby brother, I hope you're happy. I love you.

And then we come down to the dilemma of my friends;
After everything I had face in that short space of time, you'd think they'd be somewhat supportive. But they weren't. They didn't care. They called me names, picked on me for my mental disorder, bullied me and upset me more than anything in the World. They were my best friends who I loved and went to the ends of the Earth to protect. But it's not like they cared about any of that. They still pushed me around, beat me down. Made me feel like nothing. Where are they now? Laughing behind my back. They're not real friends, they never were! They suck....


Everyone sucks. I hate pretty much everyone. Except for my family and people who support me. I love you guys. And for you guys I won't think of suicide again

I promise this time.

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