I think I have a problem. Also, I think I might have an infection.?

I am a fourteen year old girls. For around five years now I have been, or at least think I have been, depressed. I've had anger issues much longer. I might be a little O.C.D. The thing is, I've been having these little suicidal thoughts. Nothing new, either. But they come out of nowhere. I'll be thinking something along the lines of " Why the hell are my shoes always so damn dirty when I clean them all the time?!" and then "You know, hanging is too bothersome. Overdose is simpler. And you can wash it all down will some vodka to make sure you don't vomit up the pills." When I look in the mirror, I want to vomit. I see a stupid, worthless, obnoxious, childish, immature, spoiled brat, who's overly self-centered and can't suck it up. Can't just bottle up her feelings like she used too. Can't just get over it like she needs too. Therefore needs corrective punishment. Needs to know that she is meant to be seen and not heard; and she is so ugly and useless that the only reason she needs to be seen is to be laughed at; ridiculed. My life will never amount to anything. I feel like I'm nothing. Just a hideous, empty shell who does not deserve life. Does not deserve joy. Does not deserve anything. Just needs to be punished. I do not deserve to be, am not, and will never be liked by anyone, much less loved. I don't deserve to be. I'm a horrible person. My own father doesn't even love me; why should anyone else? And then the anger... sometimes I get so angry at school, but I have the self-restraint not to fight. But I get so mad, still, and they all laugh. Think it's so damn funny when I get angry because I won't do anything. I'm a de-clawed cat. A dog wearing a muzzle. When I get home I start breaking little things that I won't miss. Squeezing things to try to release stress. Punching the wall, my pillow, beating my chair. I'm too much of a damn coward to do it to someone else. They'll laugh at me then too. That's all they'll ever do. And I want to die, you know. I want it real bad. To just... cease to exist. Be nothing in the fullest sense, seeing as nothing is all I'll ever be. All I'm capable of being. For years, I wanted to be a musician. I wrote songs. Wanted to learn how to play the drums; my mother stood in the way of that. She wouldn't let that "devils music" play in her house. Took me out of school last year, home schooled me, because she had found out I was an atheist. Told me the other students influenced me to give up on the "almighty savior". Her religious bullshit pisses me off so bad sometimes. She let me go back this year, but it still pisses me off. Then, she basically doesn't let me leave the house. Not that it matters; I don't have any friends anyway. But I feel so suffocated. So trapped. I have all the time in the world to focus on how horrible I am. I don't know why, but I hate her. I feel like she ruined my life. By not allowing me to continue trying to do the one thing that has every mattered to me. But it isn't her fault. I never would have been good enough to be a musician anyway. I possess no talent whatsoever. Not even the tiniest spec of it. My fans would go blind at the hideous sight of my face. No man will ever love me. Ever want me. Every find me attractive. Nothing is all I'm good for. All I do is take up space. Recently, I started cutting. Just a little bit. I had a paperclip, hid in the bathroom stall at school when I was supposed to be at lunch. I carved into my skin; ripped it. Dug into it. Scratched and clawed with the paperclip. It looked like I did it with a sharp razor blade. It's a scar now, I think. Then I switched to safety pins and kitchen knifes. Then the other night I got so angry that I tore apart a disposable razor and took out the blades. Used them on my arm. My arm and the blade both ended up being covered in blood. I started burning too. And I take a sick pleasure in it. I take a safety pin, my old friends, I hold it in the flam of my lighter until it's red, then I dig it into my skin. It works so much better for me than cutting. But I still cut. I took a nail file and heated it up like that, dug it into my skin, it left a large mark; wide. Pretty. It looks like I almost went to third degree, and with the others I went to second. All of them. I forgot to mention that a while back I started smoking; like, a lot. Sometimes half a pack a day. Sometimes more. Rarely less. Then I smoked weed. But my mother found my dime bag in my dresser that I was saving for that evening, a couple months ago. I'm still laying low, not smoking weed for a while. But I never stopped smoking. I still do. And I don't give a damn if I'll die sooner or if I get black lungs or look old as hell or even if I get lung cancer. I want to die anyway. But I'm too much of a damn coward to off myself and make the world a better plac