I went out, for milk. And I thought all the chewing gum on the ground was God spitting at me.

That’s kind of when I knew I needed help.

I know, right? It sounds ridiculous! Which is why it was so hard, you know? The bus journey to the doctors’ – this is months ago now – it took me eight weeks. I was shitting myself, trying to explain face-to-face how I felt, shifting in seat, sweaty palms and that. And I’m not a nervous person, or at least I never used to be.

I tried as best as I could, and this woman kind of sneered and laughed a little, she had clip-on earrings, and she basically made the whole thing sound like I was some lazy kid who couldn’t be arsed loading the dishwasher. I had to kind of squint and make sure it wasn’t just Mum, but with earrings on.

She sent me home with a prescription for some pills; some, because they don’t give you loads. Anyway, I got home, and I swear, I swear to you now, there was a list of possible side effects on the label and it said – I’m really not kidding! - it said: suicidal feelings.

Well obviously she was fucking crazy! I opened it up, just to make sure she hadn’t stuffed it with Smarties or something.

Maybe you’re thinking the same thing as she did. Typical, sulky adolescent; jeans that are either too baggy or too tight, staying up all night reading The Bell Jar, following adoringly down the Plath Path, buying stick-on pearls online; all choked up with love and misty-eyed by gas. (Oh! What it is to be mad! To drown sorrows in alcopop bottles!).

But it really isn’t like that. Actually, I suppose it is a little bit, but you know, I feel shit. And I don’t even have any Nirvana posters in my room or anything.

So I didn’t take the pills. I probably couldn’t have anyway.

Like, before the doctors, an overdose seemed perfect, except I’m crap at taking tablets and I don’t think it’s possible to kill yourself with Calpol. Although this one time, I was a little over-enthusiastic with a Tunes cherry lozenge and kind of choked on it and I thought Yes! This is it! but it wasn’t.

I love the smell of nail varnish remover, so I did think of that for a while.

I’m too squeamish to cut, paper ones make me feint. And besides, when the time came – after the doctors – I found I liked my veins too much. And if you fail, well, you might as well have SUICIDE DOLL or ~EMO~ tattooed right there.

I thought of the easiest way the other day; the Lazy Girl’s Guide to Suicide. But the shame of being found dead with a Tesco bag on my head. I don’t want to be so some Shameful Death of the Week on a topical news panel quiz-show. Like when people choke on dicks or are mowed down by zimmer frames and shit.

Oh, and once I tried to jump when the Countdown clock went off, but I could never get it right. Like kids sitting in a field; daises: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.

And I’ve tried to make things better. I’ve tried so hard to sort myself out and that. Like, seriously, so fucking hard, you know? So fucking hard.

I’ve written diaries, on and off. I’ve spent days, feelings entwined in Smiths riffs. Then listening to Gabrielle – Rise, and all of this stuff, Magic, and none of it worked. Not even this tear-jerker compilation, the kind they advertise in between Corrie and sell at Asda.

And I know it sounds silly, but what else can you do? There’s nothing else I can do.

And killing yourself because of you know, whatever, something everyday, of course it’s ridiculous. Like Oh I’ll Just Top Myself Because I Missed That Programme I’d Circled in Red Biro in the Guide, but when you feel so shit all the time…

Like, I know it’s supposed to be some showy performance, gurgling dying groans into the microphone, kids fumbling at the bottom of the curtains, colouring in names on gravestones.

And I know it’s not like that really. I’m not stupid, I don’t think that I’ll be greeted at some roped off red carpet entry with a stamp on my hand or anything. I know there’s nothing.

But I’m no good at asking for help. Even with things like the fucking Telewest box which never works and physics homework and stuff like that. I’m just shit at it all.

And the only help I find asking myself for…

Well, they say that God moves in mysterious ways don’t they? Except I reckon it’s life that moves in mysterious ways, it’s just that when it gets into shit, God scrambles into the driving seat.

Which is the same with me, and I feel fucking stupid saying it, but you know, I’ve done a bit of praying to bathroom spotlights, my hands together like some God lightning conductor.

Or I’m kid-scribbling messages to Him on Paint: GOD PLEASE HELP!!!!!

But he never listens, because I’m crap and I only ever visit churches in foreign countries and I’ve used up all my prayers looking for lost keys when I’m late and computer crashes.

I realised, I swapped God in the heart for an iPod in the breast pocket and I just thought Fuck.

I just thought Fuck. Because if He doesn’t love me, if he’s spitting at me, then all I’ve got is the mother, and that’s when I knew I was really fucked.