No One Knows…

Copyright, Erikka

As you know, my name is Erikka and obviously I inflict wounds to myself. The pain started just before seventh grade, when a good friend of mine died. I went into seventh grade at a new school, alone and afraid. For the entire year, I was ridiculed and persecuted for my IQ. There was a little solace in my teachers, who stood up for me when they could. Dejected, I again switched schools.

My parents, if they did care, never showed it. I was always very independent and mature, so they thought I could handle anything. How wrong they were.

This time, the ridicule was worse. Not only did the students give me a hard time for anything ranging from gender to race, but the teachers took their cruel part in society as well. To add insult to injury, another friend of mine died, the commander of my CAP squadron. My grandpa had also around this time begun to have strokes, which by July 2004, numbered twenty-one. This time, I found no solace but the annals of my mind.

I attended high school, but by this time my circumstances had changed me. I was no longer the happy go lucky girl everyone knew me as. I was synical, angry, alone, and I trusted no one. I was constantly betrayed by family and “friends” and began to make the wrong choices.

I got on the right path, but the pain I had bottled up for so long erupted. I began to cut myself, not very deeply, and to write on my arm. I would write things like “loser” or “hate me” or “worthless”, because that’s how I see myself. I mean, my own parents think that way, so why shouldn’t I?

The one time I cut myself deep enough to leave a scar, I realized I needed help. However, my parents didn’t care and I didn’t trust any of my friends.

A friend of mine from CAP showed me this website and here I am, typing away. I knew that others go through the same pain, but you always feel so alone and it is really hard to keep going.

Hopefully the brief respite from cutting will last, but you can never tell.


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