I found the diary of a bulimic girl. She seemed so lost, not knowing what to do. It was one of the only times where the simple reading of a diary truly scared me. The image of finding blood on one’s fingers after throwing up is what really affected me. I felt so helpless, so sad that there was nothing I could do.

I’m not sure what it is about myself, but I always feel like I should try to relate and help someone who’s depressed. I haven’t completely been there myself (I’ve never been completely depressed or euphoric), so often I feel like it’s not my place to be talking about it. Yet I feel like I can understand such strong emotions.

It makes me feel so forlorn when someone seems like they’re stuck in a hole, with no way out. I always felt that when I was in that hole, nothing could help me out, only the understanding of another person. That person is gone for me now, having changed my life, never knowing it herself.

I realize now that I want to help people in emotional distress because of how I looked up to that person. My admiration for her has made me want emulate her, to help other people the same way in which she helped me. I still remember how much I needed that help. Perhaps if I was able to change someone else’s life, then they could be better off than being stuck in the hole.

It’s so difficult to cure oneself of such emotional distress. After a certain point is reached, one feels so helpless, as if nothing can make things better, and nothing will ever get better. Thoughts eventually lead to suicide, life goes black, ashes turn to mud. It’s something that can’t be escaped alone.

I wish there was something I could do.