I’m here to tell my story. When I look back on it, it seems like a really stupid fucking life I’ve had.
To make it clear, I’m a 14 year old Australian male, so ill be using the Australian-English ways of spelling. Pretty much all of the trauma that I have gone through is because I was insecure about me being gay.
All of this started around July of 2010.
Everything was going great. I had great friends, family was ok, and I was secure. Then, in the mid year school holidays, I went on a holiday to America. It was really good, but I’m not here to tell that story. It was a ‘road trip’ of sorts, the only flying we did was from America and Australia.
In-between the cities and other things we stopped at, I would have hours of straight alone time. I would pretend to be asleep or listening to music, but really, in my head something was changing. I began to think about friends. My family. Myself. I kept picking out all the bad things and ignoring the good, because I was so used to it. I picked up all the little things that my friends said, did, and acted that would tick me off. I found all of the things that my family did that, when all put together, made it seem that they hated me. I discovered every flaw about myself; my looks, personality, attitude, everything. I hated it all.
All of this made something within me snap. When I arrived home, I was ok. But after a week or two, my walls were crumbling. I didn’t dare make it obvious to my friends, because being the shy person I am I hate people making me the centre of attention.
I began to hate myself. I would drive myself into thinking that I was a worthless excuse of a human being, that I did not deserve what I had, and that being gay made me so out of touch. At the time, I was closeted. This is were most of my problems stemmed from. I felt worthless because I had tricked everybody into thinking I was straight by getting a girlfriend. This changed my attitude, so my family begun to hate me. This reflected on how I treated my friends; so I was feeling insecure. I began to break down.
I tried to stop myself. It worked for a few weeks. But, one day, I was home alone. My two best friends weren’t on Facebook to try to stop me. I was bored. When I get bored enough, I think of things. Bad things. I acted upon what I was thinking. I got up, picked up my pocket knife, opened it. Stood in the middle of my room. At the time, I hated it all. I wanted life to end. I didn’t care what it made my family and friends think. I had gone suicidal.
I raised the pocket knife. Then brought it down. Instantly, broke skin. Severed veins. It only stopped when it hit bone. I removed the knife. Blood was everywhere. It was flowing down my forearm. Dripping onto the carpet.
I’m terrified of blood. Seriously terrified. I tried to think that its going to end soon, it will be soon. But human instinct took over. Seeing the blood pour out of the base of my wrist fueled it. I picked up mo phone. Tapped in 000. Ambulance was at my house in a matter of minutes.
After this, I don’t remember much. I either passed out, or some hyped up drug that was administered to me knocked me cold. But the earliest thing I could remember was waking up in a hospital. I was being rolled on a gurney down a hallway. White ceiling. Unfamiliar faces. I felt pressure on my wrist. I saw blood covered gloves. My blood. I knew people were talking to me, I could see their masks moving. But I heard none of it. I was whisked into a OR. Euthanasia. Sleep.
Curtains. White ceiling. Hospital instruments. Wires and tubes. Those were the fist things I saw when I awoke. I was alone. I tried moving. Pain. I looked at my wrist, bandaged up to my elbow. I looked around. Then the door opened. A friendly nurse was checking my vitals, explaining where I was, what happened, what is going to happen. I was still groggy from the euthanasia and the morphine. Again, I was asleep.
After what seemed like a second of sleep, I was awoken. It was daylight. My family was there. I didn’t want to explain anything. They were worried. But on the inside, I knew that I was in shit. Big time. At least I didn’t have to explain. I didn’t talk. I just totally ignored them, so that was good.
I got out a few days later. Stitches in my wrist, covered by tape. It was a Wednesday. I had to go back to school.
When I got back, I lied. I said I had a cold. I hid my wrist. It was winter, so I kept my jumper on all day so nobody could see. If by chance they did, I’d just say it was masking tape; I got bored.
The doctor had told my parents I needed counselling. I was forced to go till I got things sorted out. When I went, I didn’t talk. I resisted. But after 4 weeks, I gave up. The flood gates opened. I told her everything. Although she didn’t make me feel much better, having someone know all of my secrets felt good. I was still feeling like crap. She gave me a book, and told me to write everything I thought in it.
On our last session, I brought it along. She was amazed at what was going through my head, my complexity of my writing and how I felt. But she talked through every page with me, and it made me feel much better. My problems were gone.
One of the last things she told me to do was to try and tell those who you trust more then life. Not family, but extremely close friends. So, in the start of December, me and my best friend were playing CoD. I stopped him for a sec, asked him to come into my room, and after a lot of talking I finally said those two words: I’m gay.
Once it was out, we talked about it for a while. I was in shock that he didn’t really give a damn, which, for us gays, is really good.
It felt good to get it out.
Then, late December, me and another best friend were having a heart to heart conversation over Facebook. He had told me a big secret of his, and he wanted something in return. At first, I was worried that I was going to ruin my life. But I still told him. He also took it well. I was amazed.
There was one person left to tell. This person is very close to me, and I thought it would’ve been easy. But she was the hardest to tell. But I still did.
It was hard telling my 3 closest friends that I was gay. But it has brought me closer then ever to them. I love them more then family.
You may think that is the end. But its not. I am far from finished.
My dad and I had a big fight. I won’t dab into details, but he wished that I didn’t pick up the phone when I stabbed myself, and just died.
Feelings from before were coming back. I barricaded myself in my room. Got some scissors, and sliced my legs up. Not deep, but it still bled and hurt. I was in a trance of rage. I just kept cutting. I stopped after a while, with about 40 marks, but only 20 or so cuts. I ran away, but I came back. I am scared that I might go further, and actually succeed.
Two of my best friends are cutting too. I try to stop them, but everything I say is not working. It’s making me want to cut me again. I think I might be unconsciously turning back into the old me. I really hope I don’t.
I hate my parents. I am not telling them anything. I can’t afford to go see my psychiatrist. I don’t want to dump it all on my school counsellor, I can’t handle the torment. My friends only remove half the problem. The rest is up to me. I’m battling it. I’m distracting myself.I think its working.
That’s my story so far.