I own nothing! I like to thank Falling To Fly, helping me editing this story, really awesome and you should check out the stories, they are AMAZING! =D

I constantly keep rereading the same section over and over again. The words that are supposed to be helping me, telling me what's wrong and what to do, are turning into one blur. I try to absorb as much as I can, but I guess that can be expected when your reading a book dealing with anxiety, stress, and depression. Yes, I, James Diamond, am depressed and reading a book about it. For the past two years I haven't eaten much, only worked out for long hours.

The other day I went to the gym for five hours straight. I ran for about twenty miles on the treadmill, lifted weights for about an hour, using fifty pounds for each arm. When I finished my work out that day I didn't even realize that I had been in the gym that long.

I don't really remember how this whole depression began, and it doesn't really bother me anymore. The only thing I really remember before this whole depression settled in my brain would be when I was sixteen, trying to fit into Hollywood.

March Age 16

"Come on, hair. Stop being so damn lifeless! My hair needs to look good; if my hair looks good that means I look good. I need to look good!" I say into my mirror. I add more hair mousse, then begin to blow dry my hair again. My hair falls flat against my face once again. I let out a deep, low sigh. "I give up with you, hair."

June Age 16

I stare at my reflection, spinning around to look at my entire body at every single angle. My arms are too small, my legs are skinny, and my chest is too flat. "Man, I need to work out more." I stomp into my and Carlos' room to grab my gym bag.

October Age 17

Why does Logan have to be so intelligent? Why does Kendall have to be Amazing Kendall? Why does Carlos have to be so fun and reckless? What am I? I'm just plain old James, no one special. I only have my looks. Even my voice has become terrible. I roll onto my bed and stare at the ceiling aimlessly, waiting for something to happen.

February Age 17

I haven't eaten in two weeks. I feel my life is slipping away from my grasp. My organs are eating themselves from my starvation. Maybe I should just end my dreams here; I'm not going anywhere right now. The band doesn't really need "The Face." My talent has withered away. I have nothing else to offer.

April Age 17

I pry my eyes open, the sun hitting my face. I grimace from the brightness the sun is giving off. Birds are singing and dancing away in sky. I roll over to see the time: eleven-thirty. Shit! I'm so late. I literally jump out of bed and race into my bathroom to quickly change my attire. I pull on jeans and a random navy blue v-neck, sprinting out of my room without a glance in the mirror. My hair is probably in disarray and I didn't even brush my teeth.

I kill the car's engine and run into the studio. Kendall, Logan and Carlos are waiting for me impatiently.

"James, we were supposed to be recording over an hour ago. What happened to your hair?" Logan says tapping his foot.

"I overslept, sorry. I didn't bother fixing my hair so I wouldn't be even later. Why didn't you start without me?"

"We're doing only choruses today, so if we started without you then it wouldn't work since choruses need all four of us together," Kendall replies to my question.

"Ok, let's get to work," Carlos says, dragging us into the recording booth.

July Age 18

The razor blade sparkles as the light hits it. The blade glides on my tan skin, and blood appears from my veins. I don't feel a thing; there's no pain at all. I continue to run the blade against my skin for about ten minutes; afterwards I have fifteen slices from the blade. It takes another ten minutes to clean up the mess and wrap my cuts with a bandana. No one will notice.

September Age 18

"James," Logan pounds on the bathroom door. "James, I'm coming in!" I scramble to hide my cuts on my wrists, but it's too late. "James," Logan says, his voice filled with concern.

"Nothing, Logan. It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me, James. This," he says as he lifts my wrists to my face, "isn't nothing. You're hurting yourself."

"It's none of our business. Leave yourself out of my problems," I tell him, my voice increasing.

"You need help, James. Please, let me get you help."

"Logan, I said I don't need any fucking help!" My voice intensifies, and Logan shudders; I just scared my best friend. "I'm sorry, Logan. I didn't mean to yell at you."

"It's ok, James. But please, let me help you. You have so much to live for, please," Logan begs me.

"Fine. But you can't tell a soul about this. No one can know." Logan nods in response.

"No one will know."

Logan took me to see a psychologist for two weeks. All she gave me was anti-depressants; I have to take once a day. She didn't do much else to help me. Logan is there for me with me every step of the way, though. It's progress. Maybe one day I can overcome this depression and live no