Self-Medicating.

Hi, I’m 19 and Mmy life has been a mess. It’s funny how much you can change your outside, change your appearance, change your confidence, but still see the world in the same dark light.. still hate your insides. I never knew what was wrong with me. It wasn’t insecurity; feeling beautiful and having others feel it too wasn’t a problem. I was charismatic, friendly, energetic. That’s the part of myself I’d show you. But on the inside, I was suffocating, choking beneath all the pressure. My dad wants to be my best friend. My mom wants me to be close with her. Except both will use emotional blackmail and, occasionally, physical force, to get me to do what they want. All for my happiness and well-being of course. When words don’t work, what can you do after all? Lock a girl in a closet and beat her with a belt or a plastic hanger till the hanger snaps. Punch her around. Degrade her. They’d force me to cut my hair, guilt me for dressing in a sleeveless dress as opposed ot something more modest, keep me in isolation at home. I wonder what would happen if they saw all the ugly scars on my legs, courtesy of my own violent hand. My razorblade scars seem unreal; they’re all perfectly straight and all deep. They all bled for days. And there were always two or three at once. The aspect of cutting myself seems unreal. Everyone tells me it’ll get better. But people seem like distant travellers, here in your life one day and gone the next. I’ve never been too attached to anyone, after all, I’d never really get to see anyone because of my home life and eventually they’d fade off. Seven months ago, I thought I could try and fight that and am still in a relationship with an amazing guy. But even he can’t stop the depression, the constant thoughts of suicide, the abuse… it all seems like hell. He used that Titanic line once, “I’ll jump when you jump.” Then he moved 3000 miles away, promising he’d come back soon and we’d start a life together. Three or four useless visits from the cops and having to return home after running away can kinda dampen someone’s hopes. I’m tired of fighting it. I know I’m going to hurt him when he hears of my suicide. He stopped me during my first attempt but he’s just too far away now. I know I’m going to move on from my legs to my wrist and bleed out in the bathtub. Maybe I’d overdose. Personally, I think that’s the only way for me to “get better.” I wish there was some better way. I never wanted to let him go, to die so young. I never asked for any of this but when you’re Raggidy-Ann and the world keeps throwing you around, there’s nothing to do but fall.