Living in Suicide
Hey I’m Jess. I’m a fifteen year old girl. I’m also very suicidal and I’m a cutter. I’ve been cutting for three years now. I also burn. Here’s my story.
My whole life was never really good. My childhood was bad. My parents would mock me and tease me so I’d cry. That really mucked around with my head because I didn’t know what was going on when they did it. Mum and dad had a friend called Tracey. She used to torment me and call me fat. Because her daughters Simone and Rebecca were heaps skinny. That would probably be because of the simple fact she never fed them.
Then came year three. I was bullied by one of the teachers. Mrs. Silcox. I hated her. She used to call me stupid and ignorant. Not that I knew what ignorant meant back then, but, hey, I was smart enough to figure it out that it was some sort of insult used against me at home. I remember the last day of school I got yelled at by her for not enjoying school. I was. I hated her. I started crying and ran away.
Well not exactly. Because I ran to my grandma’s house which is about two kilometres from there. I got there and the school rang (obviously) to ask where I was. Then mum came over crying because they had sent three helicopters out looking for me and it was going to cost $3000 for each.
Then in year six I had a friend called Jessica. Yeah, she had the same name as me. How great. Not! Anyway, I remember one night I slept over at her house. And she had an older step brother Nathan. At the time he was eighteen. I had to sleep in the same room as him because that’s where the spare bed was at the time. Anyways, I remember waking up in the middle of the night stripped down to nothing. With Nathan saying “shhh, shhh, it’s OK, this will only take a minute, and you’re not to tell anyone.” Yeah, that’s right, he raped me. I was so terrified I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.
The next night when I got home I told mum. She laughed and said that if I wanted her attention I’d have to do it someway better than that. Yeah, that’s right. She didn’t believe me. Year seven was OK, I guess. But I remember after the rape I started to get really agressive. I had an argument with my friend in the class once. Stacey. She walked out and I grabbed her and smashed her head through the window. I was so so furious. And it was all because she called me a bitch. What a lousy excuse to smash someones head through a window, eh?
Then came the high school years.
Year eight. Was scary because of all the new faces and I thought Nathan was gonna be there but he wasn’t. Phew! Mr.Pollock was the name of my “year leader”. He was really nice.
In year eight is when I started cutting because I was so sick of not being loved. Instead being beaten by my parents and bullied at school. One day before school I decided to go to the shop across the road from school. I bought a stanley knife. Or a craft knife should I say. I remember that lunch time like it was yesterday…
I ran to the bathroon before the bell was to go for fifth period. I waited until I heard nothing but utter silence. I pushed the blade out of the case. And slid it across my skin on my arm/wrist. Just enough so that it would bleed.
It felt so great and the adrenalin that I had, disappeard.
From then on, every time I was alone I would cut, cut, cut. Until one of the teachers kept asking me what the cuts on my arms were from. BMX, wrestling with my dog, cat scratched me, the bricks brushed me as I walked past the wall, I fell. (All the cutters out there, you know the normal excuses, right?) Anyways, they made me speak to the school counselor about it. And of course the fuck head that I am burst out in tears about it and told her that I did it myself. I don’t know why. And crikey I wish I hadnt! I can’t even go to the school bathroom anymore without being supervised. It’s total and utter bullshit.
Year nine I was still cutting. But the cutting wasn’t doing anything for me anymore. I was just dying inside and nothing I did to my body would help. So before school one day I went in my mum and dad’s room. I found a whole pack of Mersyndol. Apparently it’s really strong. There were twenty. I took them before school… I went to school and I told the counselor beause everyone was asking if I was OK. Seeming I was throwing up every ten minutes. I’m fine I said over and over. Then my year leader took me to the counselor. “I took…” and then everything went black. I remember waking up and spewing and I was on the floor with the nurse, principal, deputy, mr. Pollock, the chaplain and the school psych crowded around. And then everything went black again. I woke up for a few more minutes and I was on an ambulance stretcher getting rushed out of the school. And then I woke up later that night in the hospital emergency department. So tired. I just wanted to sleep. I had cords all over me.
“Jess, you took an overdose of mersyndol, am I right?”
I nodded as I threw up all over myself.
“Was this a suicide attempt?”
“No! It wasn’t… Sorry, no, no it wasn’t. I had a bad headache and I wanted it to go away…”
“OK you still have to talk to one of our psychiatric doctors, OK? Just for assessment.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Nothing I said was ever gonna change their minds, was it?
Anyway, I didn’t get admitted. I tried another two times and I was admitted to the psychiatric ward and I’ve been admitted there a few times for cutting as well. And sometimes just for the continuous crying.
Anyways I was getting in a lot of fights with the teachers at school by this time and my grades… Well, let’s just say I didn’t really have any. I was getting in fights with student and getting a weekly suspension. And also by now I was refered to CAMHS.
I don’t have a mental illness. I only have severe clinical depression and anxiety. I don’t understand. But who cares.
A few weeks ago I tried to hang myself on the back of a toilet door at school. But a teacher came in and started to resuscitate me. Apparently I was blue in the face. I remember coming back into consciousness. And I had rope burn all around my neck. The school psych told me that they needed to get me to the hospital for assessment straight away because it was a very serious attempt. And they were “concerned for my safety”.
I got there and I told the guy everything that had happened to me. Everything down from the beatings and me knocking my mum out with a knife to her throat. To me getting raped.
They told me that they had no choice but to send me to Bentley Mental Institution for Adolescents lock down.
That’s right. I was locked in a room with nothing but a small window in the door for me to be checked on. And there was only a bed. Nothing else. For my safety of course. I wasn’t allowed my shoes or necklaces because I would “commit suicide”. The police came in and cuffed my wrists and ankles and then strapped me to the ambulance stretcher and put me in the ambulance and closed the doors. Cuffed, strapped and locked in an ambulance. Fun, fun, fun!
I hated it. I really did. I wished that the attempt had actually worked this time. But no. Not for me.
Five weeks later I’m contemplating another suicide beause I’m at home for three weeks all alone.
I left some bits out. But if youd like to know more I’m more than happy to tell you. E-mail me at email@example.com.
I missed out bits where I took fifty Panadol with a bottle of vodka and survived it. Just. Only just. I was flatlined for about two minutes.