Becka Jayne

My Story

Copyright Becka Jayne

It’s hard, it’s really really hard sometimes. My life can be summed into three simple words: One Big Joke. I mean up until now it’s not exactly been a spectacular ride on the Living-Life Machine. Problems and me seemed to go hand in hand since I was really young. I guess my parents played a big part in what problems invaded our ‘home’. I always felt a sadness developing a hole in me and knew I was different than the kids from the wealthier families. An outcast right from the start beside the others just like me. The very few friends to walk the darkness with me and see the truth of reality. Then came 8th grade with uncertainty of who I am, the introduction to the marvellous marijuana smoke, and self destructive tendencies. Cigarettes, them bad words not supposed to be said, and my cousins also snuck its way into my brain. I started with little eraser burns and the carving of things into my skin with whatever could break my skin. My cousin burnt crosses and stuff on him as well, making each new one worse. I carved FML into my ankle and seemed to be engulfed and not harmed by the pain. As the years in my life continued to arrive I found myself in a trap I had been growing since those days. We got into high school and more maturity, or so we thought, and became increasingly worse each day. Going down the ‘wrong path,’ entering everything your parents told you to stay away from. Soon we were nothing but the smokers, the ‘bad kids’, the druggies, the troublemakers, and sure enough soon to be the dropouts. The depression that was draped over my head as a child took its tole on me as I spiralled down everyday. Getting high and drunk and always having cigarettes were our main priorities. School sucked major ass and was just another thing to be down about. Trapped in this small piece of shit town full of drugs and wasted lives. Not a damn thing to do except get fucked up and fuck myself up. I don’t know why it had to be this way or why my depression grew so heavy. Ever since I was old enough to realise the way things really are I’ve been plagued with a sadness, with this darkness that devours every feeling and returns it tainted. The spinning pain that pulls beneath the surface, deep within the place where the will to live is supposed to remain. Everything feels wrong like it’s offbeat from the rest, as if missing a piece that connects happiness. Before I knew it my upper arm was cluttered with scars that still remain today, and they appeared by my hand a very long time ago. Slowly the slashes moved down my arm and all over my wrist, getting worse each time I cut. By then I knew I was screwed to the blade and proceeded to unleash hours of wrath from countless days wherever there was room. I started cutting on my right arm after about a year because I’m right handed and always cut my left. I can remember how pretty my untouched arm was. Pretty soon it was just as bad as the other and steadily growing worse. There is not a clear spot on my skin just old fading scars and other long to remain and stinging bright red new ones from the night before this one. I have hid them well not many has seen the horror I can do and no one can ever help me. I don’t know if I could ever stop or make this agony go away without the spilling of my blood. Something’s gone wrong inside me, sour and painful to the touch. I still cut and will cut again soon I still carry a blade with me wherever I happen to go, in case the time should come. I’m just going to keep on killing myself slowly everyday and do the harmful obscenities that have brought me up to where I am now. I need someone like me that knows the nature of my pain. Someone that feels what I feel beside me. Well that’s my shitty story. Just another addition to the ever so well know teenage wasteland.


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