Copyright, Acacia

My name is Acacia. I am fifteen and have been seriously hurting myself for over a year. The first time I ever hurt myself was in fifth grade, when I was sitting on a rock near some train tracks and feeling bad about myself. So I picked up a rock and made the tiniest of scratches on my arm. I don’t count that as a real episode of SI. But that’s where it branched from. In sixth grade I did a few more of these minor cuts, and in seventh I did several ‘real’ cuts with a serrated steak knife.

In eighth grade at the age of fourteen this behavior began to manifest itself. I had about five scars on my arms from cutting, but my boyfriend found out and threatened to dump me if I continued. So I stopped, or at least tried to. Then I would carve designs into my calves, such as a pentagram when I was Wiccan or random symbols from a language I invented. By the end of 8th grade I was scared to wear shorts because of these scars. I could wear tees, because the scars on my arms weren’t too abnormal looking.

Over the summer things got really bad. I started to drink because it numbed the pain. I know most people have a good solid reason for SI, like abuse or family member’s traumatic events. Compared to those reasons mine are ridiculous. I was always a 4.0 student and I felt like no matter how good I did, it was never enough. I would hate myself if I got even a 99%. Add this to a significant weight problem I have had since second grade, I was convinced that I would never be happy. I now believe I have either depression or bipolar disorder and perhaps OCD. But I am too worried to go to a counselor or anything.

Anyways, back to the summer. It was filled with swimming, so I could absolutely not cut for months. It was really hard, but I was so proud of myself for stopping that long. But I was still so depressed. And one day I just decided I wanted to die. I took twenty-five extra strength Excedrin mixed with a glass of vodka, because I heard that was bad. All that happened was I got sick for a couple days. No one has ever found out about that.

When school started the self-injury got increasingly worse. My legs and thighs are completely covered, as are my arms, wrists, upper arms, stomach, etc. Cuts have gotten deeper, more frequent, and in multitudes.

Two weeks ago I felt so sad. I really wanted to end it all. I was sick of trying so hard when life is so pointless. I was sick of all the stupid preps, scratching themselves and saying they were suicidal. Sick of people. Sick of not being able to cry. Sick knowing things would never get any better. So I took a bottle of Ibuprofen. I had all that was left in the bottle. Ninety. Then I went back inside and had about twenty Excedrin and Benadryl. I lost count at 110 total pills. I went downstairs, lay on a couch, and waited to die. I think I passed out for a while then went back upstairs. I really do not remember anything from 5 to 12 that day. My mom says I was all spaced out and rocking back and forth, saying “mom i want to go to bed” at 7 at night. She thinks I had some of the mushrooms growing in our woods. Next thing I remember I’m in the bathroom at 12 a.m. puking, which I did a few more times that night. And the next morning I woke up. God it sucked. That is a truly serious attempt. Not like the people I’ve heard of that went to the ER for five frickin’ Ibuprofen.

This past week I tried to stop cutting. This morning at 2:30 a.m. I had to convince me not to kill myself. Again. I just slashed my arm up and fell asleep. Right now all I want to do is go into the kitchen, swallow all the pills, and lay down and die. But I won’t let myself. All because of a poem I wrote in a brief period of happiness last week. Maybe I’ll feel good about myself again. Oh yeah, I forgot the bit about my bulimia. To get rid of the fat problem. I was bulimic for about a month until my mom caught on and made me stop. Now I am just trying to stop eating.

I seriously want to die. I wish someone could help me, but I don’t know. I’ll never be able to tell anyone. What I want more than anything now is just my body back. A body free of these scars that will never be gone. I would still be OK. If only I could cry.


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