I woke up with a tear-streaked face, realizing I’d cried myself to sleep. The blood was dried on my arm and became a painful reminder of how low I got the night before. But I shouldn’t reminisce; I needed to get up and carry on with my life. I needed to shove my feelings down my throat and pretend they don’t exist, or I would be stuck with depression for the rest of my life.

Today was the day that I had an interview for the job of my dreams: a journalist for a big newspaper company throughout the country. I must concentrate and forget about the blood red stains scratched across my body and focus on improving my life. Preparing for the perfect interview and the nervous clawing in my stomach busied the rest of the morning, so the afternoon creeped round quicker than I anticipated. I arrived in the editor’s waiting room 5 minutes before schedule.

I was no longer nervous, but aware of the marks on my arm that showed my vulnerable and weak side. I hoped I would remember to leave my black jacket on. The receptionist called my name at 2 o’clock on the dot. I shakily stood up and entered the office to be greeted by a round, kindly face of a woman called Lucy.

“Hello, I’m Lucy. Are you here for the journalist application?”

I nodded, the lump in my throat becoming bigger.

“And you are…?” Lucy left the question open for me to answer.

“I’m…”

Nervous. Calm. Scared. Fearless. Full of dreams. Empty of achievements. Thoughtful. Thoughtless. Alone. Among others. Smart. Stupid. Accepted. Rejected. Ashamed. Proud. Wide awake. Tired. Depressed. Affluent. Weak. Strong. Desperate. Hopeful. Worthless. Valuable. Guilty. Innocent. Forgiving. Vengeful. Loud. Shy. Confused. Confident. Trapped. Free. Hopeful. Hopeless.

Alive. Dead.

“…I’m Becky.”