I have wanted to **** myself since I was old enough to hold a kitchen knife to my throat. My mother always tells me I am negative and asks if I will be more happy if we get a cat more. How many animals must one get before happiness comes walking through the door. My happiness got beaten out of my chest when I was old enough to scream and people wonder why and how I  suddenly got so quiet.  I can't speak up for myself because I have lost my voice in the echoes of my cries for help. My mind is working for two people and that is how 'She' came to life. I got my first cat at age nine when the physical turned everything mental. 'She' increased her work to destroy my mind for good. No words hurt more than the ones spoken from the inside. The words are tattooed on the walls surrounding my brain. I got my second cat at age thirteen right as my sister fell down a black hole of depression. She wanted more than anything in the world to die and that is how I feel now. I see the failing shadow in my reflection each day but I am trying to be happy yet I still wish to die most days so I just lay in my black bed of death hoping that one day it will swallow me hole. Maybe then I will find some kind of happiness.