I lost all of my dreams…

Copyright, Antonia

I’ve never stopped to believe in wonders till I lost my faith in God. I don’t believe in god anymore, since I know, that nothing is OK in this world. He never helped me.

I started to cut myself at the age of thirteen and now I am fifteen years old. All the things, I’ve done in my life, are so wrong. I know it now. I lost many friends in this winter I lost my dreams, but I love to be depressive. I don’t like to be laughing, frankly speeking. I don’t know why, but isn’t it wonderful to be in despair? I love it. I think you don’t think so. All people tell me I am a freak, when I said this. Now nobody knows anything from me and my life.

At the age of thirteen I started to take drugs, too. At the time it was fun and now I need it, like cutting. It’s so hard, because I lost a lot of my best friend because of drugs. They don’t need me anymore. I’m worthless. Many people don’t like me, because I lie to them and pretend that I’m fine. They feel, that I lie to them, but they don’t know why. They don’t see me, but my mask.

I want to kill the pain with cutting and take drugs, but I know: I can’t cut it all away and I can’t smoke it all away. I can’t pray it all away. Can’t fight it all away.

But there is no door to leave it all…

Inner Demons

Copyright, Antonia

I have no explanation as to why I started self injuring. My childhood was not perfect but I was loved for every moment of it. I was spoiled and always praised for my accomplishments. We are a strong Christian family. Not strict just strong believers. I am too. Which is why I don’t understand myself at times. This isn’t what God wants for me. My body is supposed to be a temple, not a cutting board. I can’t explain where these thoughts of self injury came from. I can only suppose they come from my own inner workings.

I didn’t even know what I was doing at the time. I was thirteen, in 7th grade. I would get mad at friends or teachers and start jamming my pencil tip into my skin. I would carve words into my arms like ‘die’. I never had a second thought as to why I was doing it. In 8th grade I received the first failing grade I had ever gotten. I was furious at myself. At the time I had a solid oak bunk bed. I grabbed the edge of the top bunk with both hands and rammed my head into the side. I did it over and over, about ten times. I had a golf ball on my head that I said I had gotten when I was getting out of bed and hit the top bunk. My mother found out about things and I did want help. I tried to enter a self injury rehab center in Kansas but we couldn’t afford it. Insurance won’t pay if you aren’t suicidal and they won’t take you if you are. Ironic isn’t it? In 10th grade it turned into something more. While arguing with a friend on the phone I took the center tube of a Q-tip, melted it in a candle I had burning and layed in on my arm. I did it again, and again. I ended with a star shaped second degree burn on my arm. It didn’t hurt. I felt better. After that I kept burning myself and it kept relieving my anxiety. I dropped out of school that year. I just couldn’t take it anymore. One evening soon after I was eating dinner with my family and my aunt made a comment that infuriated me. I sat my plate down and left. I went into a bedroom and punched the wall as hard as I could. It felt good. Of course it felt good, I had franctured my hand. I then went upstairs and put a few matches out on my arm. Now I could finally see straight. That was four years ago. I am now married with a child. I still self injure. Three weeks ago I took a razor apart and used the blades inside it. That felt good. I have tried many other remedies but have not found anything else that helps as much. I still hope that someday I will. But for now, self injury is a way of life.


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