I’m nothing. I’m just stuck in a rut, marching to a beat that only I can hear. And I’m a freak for it. I’ve been shoved down stairs, I’ve been harassed, I’ve been raped, and I’ve been humiliated. I’ve got what I need. I have a gun, I have a noose, I have two bottles of sleeping pills, and I have the intent.
That was what was going through my head as I stood in my doorway, listening to the phone ring and ring. My parents were out of the house. I had no siblings. I was alone. I looked around, reached for the gun, and smirked. The metal was cool. I deliberated for a moment. I didn’t want my brain to be splattered on the walls. And if I missed, the bullet could enter my brain, and I wouldn’t die. That’s what scared me, forced me to put the gun back down. I hated myself, hated my cowardice. How could I not just pull the trigger?
The noose couldn’t work. I could fail, and seeing as I wanted to die properly, I didn’t want to take the chance.
I turned to the Melatonin, wishing for some sleep. A nice, long sleep where I wouldn’t wake up. I swallowed ten dry, coughing. If I stopped now, I was a coward. I swallowed ten more, and closed my eyes. How long? I emptied the first bottle’s contents onto the floor, taking them like candy. Soon. Soon. The bottle was empty. I put the other bottle back, staggering. I threw away the other one and satisfied in my coming death, I fell asleep on the bathroom floor, and that’s where my mother found me.
It didn’t work, obviously.
My mother didn’t even realize what I had planned. Adults are so stupid.
But I decided on a new tactic. I had found a piece of glass, and I was curious to see how much it would help. And it did help. Momentarily. I thought that in order to bring peace to my body and my mind, I’d have to go deeper. I have so many marks now.
The guidance counselor saw my marks. Â She told my parents. They sent me to a psyche ward for children. I pretended that I was cured. “All I need to stop cutting is 10 days” “I’ll be fine”
They don’t know why I cut. I told them so many reasons, but they don’t accept them. I cut because I want to be in control. I cut because I want to see the blood. I cut because I want to feel pain. I feel hollow, is there anything inside? I feel cold, has my blood seeped out of me? I hurt, can’t I distract myself?
What they were worried about, were suicidal thoughts. Heh, no I didn’t tell them about my dark fantasies. They would’ve put me on no sharps for the rest of my life. Which, granted, is going to be very short. So I lied. I said, “Oh, NO! Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” “Of course not! I LOVE life. I can’t imagine how someone can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel!”
They believed me, and I was enjoying the charade.
My mother checks on me though, and it’s a full body search. Every bump, bruise, and mark has to be analyzed. Â I’m just biding my time. I’m cutting still. Just only on the palms of my hand and on the underside of my feet. No one checks there so I’m safe. As soon as my mother stops the checks, I restart the cutting. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find something more effective to stop my pain.
3 comments
): dang…that’s alot… similar to what i’ve experienced too… i went 2 the hopsital for 9 days and pretended 2 b cured. now i’m back and ready 2 do it… anyways… i really wish there was somethin i could do to help you, let me know if there is
what sleeping pills you taking? i cnt take this shit no more. im ready to get some
Please don’t do it. I know it’s hard, but there is help out there that can help you.