The First Time

The first time I tried to commit suicide I was relatively young. Thinking back, I’m not sure why I tried. I just got so tired of living. It’s not that I had no friends, I had a bunch, but I didn’t really have any real ones. I knew my friends talked about me behind my back, we all did. It wasn’t the fact that they did it, it was just that they said such horrible things about me and acted so nice to me. Then another something happened at home. My mom and I fought so much, it was horrible. She would scream, yell, tell me how useless I was. Tell me how much she wished I just didn’t exist. How much easier her life would be if I just left. So I did. Every day I would leave home and explore my neighbourhood. Slowly, I started coming home later and later. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but it was to my mom. When I’d come home, she’d scream at me some more. Eventually it got to the point where she hit me. Not a big deal to her, but to me it was. The first time she hit me was the first time suicide crossed my mind. I just felt so alone, my family sucked. My dad might as well not exist, we never talked anyways. He was more like a distant family member who lived with my mom and me. That same day that my mom hit me, the mark faded. But internally the scar would stay forever. I always think back to that day, and how much I broke. She apologized, and soon everything was back to normal. The occasional small quarrel, but nothing huge. The second time she hit me, I tried to kill myself. It might not seem like a big deal to you, but it was to me. I had nothing left. My friends never hung out with me, they were always together, I was that awkward third wheel nobody likes. So, that second day my mom hit me, she apologized immediately, but it was too late, suicide had already popped into my mind. So later that evening, I went out for another nightly exploration. But this time I took a small lighter with me, along with a little knife. I was young, I wasn’t sure of what I was doing. I’m still young, and I’m not sure what I’m doing posting this. But I am. So, on with the story. I went to the big field in my little area. I just lay down in the middle, staring at the sky. No one bothered me, no one passed by except for a car, once. I took the lighter and made a small flame. It hypnotized me. The colors seemed amazing, the way it would flicker. I brought it close to my hand, let my finger touch it. It didn’t hurt as much as I always thought it would. I kept running my fingers over the flame, it felt good. I would always immediately put out the flame though. I was scared, so along with the lighter and knife I brought a damp cloth and a water bottle. I know right, what the hell was I doing. Eventually, the lighter stopped creating those gorgeous colors and shapes. I took out the knife, and brought it close to my wrist. I couldn’t do it then, and I still can’t. I went home, and nobody noticed my burned fingers. I did have a scar, but somehow it faded. So that was the first time I tried to kill myself. Doesn’t seem like much, but I had a huge elaborate plan for how I was going to do it. I just got… distracted. The one good thing that came from that experience was that I realized I am a pyromaniac. I always carry a lighter with me, and sometimes it just happens to create a tiny little flame. That is the story of my first attempted suicide. What a fail. The thing is… I was ten when this happened.