Author's Note ; The following is Alfred's background story around the tragic day, September 11th. This goes in-depth on his depression, how he handled himself in the three years that followed, and how the weight of that time still follows him eight years after his depression 'ends'.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: 9/11, Self harm, Depression

Today is September 11th, 2012.

September 11th.

It's been eleven years since the attacks. It was also when my depression began. Supposedly, it ended three years later, or eight years ago from now.

But it never really did go away, did it?

Sure. I stopped cutting, I stopped drinking, and I gained my lost weight back. I got in touch with family and friends again, and I've been happier overall.

But every September of every year, the depression comes back. It's been getting better with each year, and has been stable for the last year or two, but now…

Now I almost feel like the cycle is starting all over again. And I don't know why.

This day eleven years ago, my country, my home was attacked. Thousands of people died. Thousands of innocent people who did nothing to have their lives ended. No, it's not their faults. Every year, I blame the same person for those attacks.

Myself.

I thought my country was strong and secure. And it is, but… Somehow, I was able to overlook them. It has to be my fault; who else is there to blame?

That's probably why my depression started in the first place. My home was attacked, and I blamed myself for it. What man would ever be the same after that?

I remember a week after it happened. On the 18th. That was the first day I picked up a knife and started my… Self harm, to put it a bit less bluntly.

I couldn't stop myself. That first week, I was just a ghost: emotionless, hovering, even a bit pale. But the night of the 18th was when I lost it. Tears streamed from my eyes, I was yelling at everything and anything in my house, I punched walls. There was so much emotion inside that needed to get out. Too much was trying to escape at once.

That was the night everything started to hurt.

After that, I started to grow into a pattern. Pick up the knife one night, drink away the pain the next, then get the knife again the next night. I remember opening my fridge, seeing all this food that looked really appetizing, but I refused to eat it for reasons I never had.

Every day, I'd get calls and letters and even the occasional package. Calls went unanswered and were never returned. Letters were left in front of my door where they fell from the mail slot, and the packages were eventually taken to the post office for me by the mail carrier until I retrieved them. But I never got them. They don't hold onto your packages for three years for you.

Sometimes, I'd hear people knock on my door. I wouldn't answer, or even peek to see who it was. I would just stay where I was, staying silent.

That's how I spent almost all my days. If I wasn't out drinking the pain away, I was just staying in one spot, completely silent.

After a while, they just stopped coming, though. Everyone stopped coming. They started leaving calls until they realized I wouldn't answer those, either. After a year, it seemed like all efforts to get some kind of response out of me were gone.

When the first year passed, I started trying. First, I dropped drinking. It took a few weeks, but I soon was able to quit drinking. However, this only made me stay inside 24/7. At least it was one addiction dropped. However, I couldn't stop my cutting. I tried so hard, but week after week after weekof trying, I gave up. I'd always go back to that blade when I felt that pain come back.

That next year went similarly. Except this time, I tried to reach out to others. I didn't make phone calls, nor did I allow visitors. Only mail. And I didn't want anyone trying to make me feel better. I just wanted normal conversations. Because of this I ended up not responding to most of my letters.

The third year was exactly the same. The only thing different was that it was my last. August was coming to an end, and I could feel my arms itching for that blade as September grew closer. By now, deep red marks were etched into my forearms and wrists. There were no patterns; just straight across. They were quick, easy, and deep slices. I wanted them to hurt. The physical pain overpowered the mental and emotional pain at the time.

But on the first day of September, my brother and Kiku had come. Apparently, one of them had spoken with my landlord, who unlocked my door for them with his master key.

They saved me from what could've been the end of my life. If I had carried on another year or so like that, I wouldn't be alive today. I'm sure of that.

I had six months of rehab and support groups. During those six months, I did my very best to quit all my bad habits. And eventually, I dropped all of them. When those six months were over, I was proud of myself. I was proud that I could live happily again without hurting myself.

But the first September after rehab was terrifying. I felt the urges coming back, and I was extremely tempted. I found ways to stop myself. I picked up a pencil instead of a knife and started writing music instead of cutting skin. That's how I started playing guitar.

The next year, I grabbed a pan instead of a beer and tried my hand at cooking. I found out I wasn't the best, but better than I originally thought.

I did the same thing for two more years before I was able to handle September without harming myself. After that, I went through September only losing some weight from eating less.

This year was turning out just the same as last year. I've lost twelve pounds since the beginning of the month. A little more than the other years, but still about the same.

However, the itching feeling is coming back. My scars throb in pain for no reason, and any places that were lucky to go unmarked now itch to be marked. Despite it being eight years since I last cut, I still remember that itching feeling so well.

This year, I'm scared. Afraid. Absolutely terrified. I feel weak this year. My stomach is twisting and turning into a knot, the itching feeling is getting worse every day.

And here we are now.

It's September 11th, 2012.

September 11th.

And I am once again becoming weak.