I once tried to imagine myself as a statistic. I came up with the number 2.345. I felt inhuman writing it, but it was just as fulfilling as my own name. Lacy. 2.345. They were both as foreign looking in my notebook as the other.

I bit my lip and stabbed my arm with my pen. The pain helped me focus a little better. I paused to stare down at pink hole in my arm. Another statistic. One in five teens have engaged in self harm. I sighed and set down the pen. I hesitated and picked up the pen again, ramming it even deeper into my flesh. I focused all my stress and fear into the pen. It felt so good. I almost didn't care that my friend had noticed my odd new behavior. He was sitting behind me. What if he had been watching? I felt my face grow hot and I shoved the pen in deeper. Finally, I pulled the pen out and peered curiously at the pink cavity. There was an odd wrinkle next to it. I rubbed it, but it didn't go away. I glanced back quickly to check my friend. I put my arm up to my mouth and bit the wrinkle. I watched, fascinated as blood poured out of a tiny hole.

I hid my arm as someone walked by. I nervously chewed my nails instead. I knew I was too smart for this, I was in the top 5% of my class. Huh, another statistic.

Suddenly the bell rang and I jumped up and ran quickly to my locker. I grasped my Ipod. Amy Winehouse blared in my ears. It felt morbid listening to her music as I considered my own death. I couldn't fathom a reason to be alive. Life had no meaning, I could be dead in two days. I wanted to plan my death. I knew suicide was not glorious. I had heard that most people were found amid their own feces. I didn't want the glamor nor the glory of it. I didn't imagine people missing me, or a long and solemn funeral march. Instead I imagined nothing. I wanted nothing more than to be finished, I was bored with it all. The emotions, the pain, I wanted it all to be gone. I imagined that death was peaceful. I feared however, that perhaps death might be a continuation of life. It was my worst fear of death. I knew that I would become one of the 8 out of every hundred thousand teens, but I didn't care anymore.

There are two different kinds of people reading this. The ones who have thought about suicide and the ones who have not. The ones who have self harmed and the ones who have not. As I write this, I stare down at the scab on my arm from yesterday. It doesn't really matter why I'm depressed, just know that I am. I am not just a statistic. I am a dieing human being and if that doesn't matter then life really isn't for me.

Sincerely, 2.345