A couple of years ago I had many attempts of suicide, since then I’ve been trying to get help. Everything gets in the way, stopping me from helping myself. I try and find reasons to start over new or someone for that matter. Now I feel numb and without a single care.
In our household music is everything. I push myself every night to add more and more hours onto my piano practice, until my hands cramp and I can’t play any longer. I sometimes get really angry where I pull at my hair and make my skin bleed, usually screaming my head off, there is no control when this happens. I feel my body get red and boiling rage just sets me off, usually when something like this happens its pent up anger from continued fights with loved ones or non stop drama.
My mum found my old ropes in the hardest to reach place of my closet, who knows the reason for her to be there. That day was filled with many different attempts. The rope had been ready. I had doubts that it would work, the rope was already too thin making it possible to snap from above me. Although I had my other ways. This day had been planned out for months, thinking about it everyday, let me have some sort of relief, knowing that nothing really matters anyway if I’m going to kill myself, so why should I commit to plans and goals? No one is home. I live close to the shops, so I walked down with minimal change in my pocket. I entered the news agency purchasing rubber bands. I and ropes from somewhere else. I can just picture the look on my face when going up to the counter, I wonder if the man had any clue at all. That day was scorching hot, the walk back seemed more tiring then going down. I had my blades, ropes, bag, rubber bands. I guess you’re probably wondering why I didn’t just take pills. I’ve thought this through many times and always come to the same conclusion. My mum takes very strong pills for her, which I wont name. I knew that would be too easy. The amount of times I thought of downing those pills are insane. I love my mum so much and wouldn’t want her to get caught in any trouble for my actions, she would think “if only I hid those pills”. The bag was my last option. This was my first attempt, I had no idea what I was doing, I just wanted to die at that very minute. I self harm, and when I don’t self harm, I think about it. I search numerous articles while sitting on the toilet, pressing bloody tissue to my already scarred skin. I have never cried or flinched really from the pain. I get frustrated for having to hold the tissue, until the bleeding stops. As you’ve probably guessed I’m quite impatient.
I have a scar from that day, the inside of my wrist where you can hear your heartbeat. I used to be able to see the reflection of my own skin, and just stare. Sometimes I get ashamed of my skin or even disgusted. I dreamt of having a future sometimes, but other times I thought that it wasn’t even an option.
I hear the door slam, and I feel all the colour from my face sinks. I’m in my bathroom with bloody tissues that covered the floor. Mum comes in my room and calls out to me. I do my best to cover the scene. One arm foolishly behind me.
I had an interesting childhood… I bet if I told you some of it you wouldn’t believe me. To this day I’m suicidal everyday, but always finding a reason to not go through with it. I have used pills before, but not the kind you’re thinking (Paracetamol). That was the worst throwing up experience I have ever had. Taking 12/13 at once was bound to not stay down. Failing miserably again.