Copyright Crystal

Well, my name is Crystal and I’m seventeen. I have no idea why I’m writing this, I guess I just want people to know the real me.

This started when I was about nine, my family wasn’t stable, I was beaten and I was an extremely angry child. One day I was fed up with all this rage and not being able to express it and I decided I would. I took my pencil sharpener and I took out the blade and I made it scratch my right arm. It bled a little bit and I was glad to finally be able to express myself and control my emotions.

Things got worse. My mom was an alcoholic and she didn’t take care of me and my brother. And I was caught up in my world of pain and blood. I eventually began scratching myself with my fingernails until it bled, for the scars were bigger and less painful. I also used bigger objects, like scalpels or nail clippers or box cutters. I was lost.

At around age 14 I got raped at a party, and I hated myself for being such a slut. I was raped again, four months later, under the influence of alcohol and drugs. That was it. I burst. That night I swallowed all the pills and medication I could find in the house (which was a large amount because my mom had bipolar and had to take all kinds of pills to set her mood — she attempted suicide that year) But things didn’t work out, I woke up in the hospital.

After that I turned 15, by then I was cutting, burning, scratching, hitting, and breaking myself. I was enraged and hollow and lonely and more than sad. On a day in December, about a week before Christmas, my best friend committed suicide by jumping off the balcony of the hotel room he was staying. I was dead. I tried to jump from the same balcony, but I only suffered from broken bones and a fractured skull. I refused to go to therapy. I was forced to anyway. It didn’t help.

One night I remember going down in the basement, picking up a screwdriver and stabbing my self with it. I went to the hospital for that (for the millionth time having to undergo stitches all the time.) I also smashed my hand with a sledgehammer once. I was numb, the pain wasn’t present I was locked up in this cage of a body, in my mind homicidal and suicidal thoughts were flowing at lightning speed. I was surrounded by death and ignorance and judgement.

I attempted suicide once more after that, by trying to cut an artery. I didn’t but I cut lots of veins and I lost a lot of blood. By then I didn’t feel anything anymore, I was just dead. I wanted the inside to match the outside. And I still do. I still harm myself, more than before, and I hope I’ll die soon, but I’ve realised that even God doesn’t want me. I’m useless.


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