Well it all started when I was in 8th grade, April 2004. I pretended to be
happy. Then I met this great guy named Matt, he made me really happy. And we
dated. When we started dating was when I first picked up cutting but I never
told him anything about it. Until it got worse when I found out that my
parents were doing crack and I blamed myself. When I was nine I was molested
by my grandfather and I blamed myself for the longest time. But my parents
would spend both of their paychecks every week on crack or cocaine and I
would call Matt crying and I didn’t know what to do. Finally I turned to a
razor and slit my wrist more than ten times a night. Then we became broke
all the time and me and my two brothers would always be hungry because there
was barely any food in the house so I would starve myself just so they
could eat and I was too depressed to even eat most of the time. And Matt
would visit me often but one day he found out I was cutting and I didn’t
want him to and I knew right then and there I was hurting him. The look he
gave me tore me apart. Then in July of 2004 was when Matt broke up with me
and he told me so many times to stop and I didn’t listen to him so he left
me. And that’s when everything got worse. The drugs between my parents has
gotten worse and when my dad would go days without he would have anger
problems and one day when I yelled at him he beat me and I went to the
guidance counsellor at my school. He called HRS on my parents and my dad
lied to them bout the drugs but admitted to beating me, saying I’m a ‘little
bitch and deserved it’ and that’s when they took me out of my home and made
me go live with my aunt and uncle who also did crack. And at this moment I
would cut myself fifteen to thirty times a night, going over the same slits
and I would pretend I was happy but I was dying in the end. So finally six
months after this happened I went home again. About the time December 2004
rolled around I walked outside in a daze not thinking, my eyes stung with
tears. I walked out there with the rope in my hand and blood falling down my
arm. I went to go hang myself and my mom walked and saw me about to hang
myself. She called 911 and they put me in Coastal Behavioural Health Clinic I
was there on lockdown for two weeks. I got counselling and medication and I
got out the night of Christmas Eve. I went to counselling until about May of
2005 and now it’s been about a year I haven’t cut myself. I still think about
doing it, but I can’t. My parents still do crack cocaine but I have a job now
and it’s not as bad as it was. Me and Matt are talking now and now were
trying to work our relationship out. Hopefully it’s going to work out. Never
ever cry over mistakes or dwell on them instead sit there and take it all in
and trust me you will learn a lot. But always remember, suicide isn’t the
answer. Please IM me if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here on AOL or
God, I wish I could cut again. So bad. I am so sick and tired of being perfect. Sick of being responsible, sick of being what everyone wants me to be. I would do it in a second if I knew I wasn’t hurting anyone but me. Let me explain: I used to cut a lot, and now I can’t. I “recovered”, I’m “happy”. Yeah right, maybe I recovered and was happy for a little while, and in that little while I completely did a 360 and made everyone so proud of me. Straight A student, conference champion, yada, yada, yada. I even landed me an amazing boyfriend. Who I love drastically. He is the only thing keeping me from slicing myself open. But he is leaving for the weekend… But I promised I wouldn’t do anything “bad”. Why did I promise? I never promise, at least not that I won’t cut.
I know I’m losing it again. I have been pretty stable for the last year and a half, a few minor relapses here and there, no big thing. I want a major relapse, it pisses me off that a lot of my scars are going a way. Just for a while, just to get it out of my system. But I know I won’t. I know I’ll conform to what I’m supposed to do, supposed to be.
I’ll be patient I’ll go to college next year and then I’ll relapse, I have had it planned out for a long time. No one will have to find out, I won’t know anyone there.
Eleven months until next September.
Eleven months of facing smiles.
Eleven months of silently hurting.
Eleven months till I can breathe.
I’m so sick of all this shit. Sick of holding it all inside. I want to let it out of me and yet I’m so scared to try. So I turn to the weapons, to the blades. I turn to the blood and the pain. You don’t know what it’s like sitting here all alone just looking for a reason to hang on.