Copyright Janwise

Many times I’ve sat and read through peoples stories, always telling myself that I’ll write one, but never get around to it. Now I’m writing my story, in the hope that someone will read it and understand, because I’m losing hope in everything. I apologise if this doesn’t make sense.

I was a very talkative child, always smiling. I was that girl. The one who’s always on top of the world, the one who doesn’t get beat down by anything. The girl who has everything. Except, I don’t remember it like that. I try to remember, try to remember a time when I was a happy, but I can’t, and I wonder if that’s because the shit has taken over, or if because I’ve never really been happy. More than likely it’s the latter. Dramatic, I know.

I never really figured anything was wrong, you know, really wrong, when I’d be sitting alone, crying, clawing at every part of body in an attempt to stop the world, to stop the pain. Never thought anything was different all those times I’d bang my head against walls and scratch at the underside of my elbows until they bled. Always thought it was a part of life. Accepted it, dealt with it. No big deal.

Then, it became that the scratching wasn’t enough, needed something more. Something stronger, more powerful. Wanted to make myself hurt on the outside the way I was hurting on the inside. That’s where cutting comes into the equation, you know, assuming that it wasn’t already there. Make that first cut and everything makes sense, makes the things on the inside hurt less.

No one noticed the sudden use of long sleeved shirts all the time, even when the weather was 25 degrees outside. No one asked. No one cared. No one understood. That’s when the loneliness of everything settled in, when I realised that there was no point to anything anymore, and that the only person I had was myself.

I never talked about my feelings anyway, but the more and more I was hurting, the more I kept it all inside, only to relieve if through an inanimate object. It seems pretty strange, talking about it now, when I think about how much something without feelings, can become the most sympathetic and caring thing on the planet, but it’s the truth. I became contented with the fact I was alone, allowed myself to be deceived into believing there was no problem, carried on as if nothing was wrong.

All would have been successful too, until my cousin found out, told my parents. Should’ve been happy, that finally someone was taking notice, should’ve been happy that my parents were sending me to therapy, because, after all, therapy solves everything right? Just talk, they’d say, tell me, how do you feel? And I’d tell her, sit and tell my therapist that I feel like shit, get asked if I could expand on that, explore those feelings. End up talking a load of bullshit, because she really wasn’t understanding.

Discover that no, therapy solves fuck all, but I still went, because there was still that hope, that hope that this person with their pen and their clipboard could make everything alright. That the pain would go away, just give it time. But time runs out, and time with my therapist ran out, and things were getting worse. Take up drinking, because the cutting doesn’t really have the same effect anymore, the cutting became a habit, an addiction, eventually, so did the alcohol. Found myself trapped in a circle of destruction. Trapped in myself.

Overdose. Problem solved right? Fuck it, who cares? Sit on the field with my best friend, the one person who’s still standing by me, despite the fact you’re fucked up. The one skipped classes with me, with the knowledge that, we really shouldn’t be doing this. Do it anyway, because what’s the point?

Find myself back at therapy. Find myself spilling out everything, spend many sessions talking about suicide, talking about the things that hurt. Find myself getting closer and closer to the inside. The stuff that’s caused all this shit to happen. Spend the last session before a two week break, talking about how close I am to suicide, that if pushed in the right direction it’d be over. Come back after two weeks, talk about my great holiday with my family. Talk about how things are really good. Talk a load of shit.

Square one.

Listen to my therapist talk about how different I seem, how much happier I look to be, how things from the past don’t hurt like they used to. Listen to the way she says I’ve come a long way. Sit and listen. Don’t talk, don’t talk about anything anymore, because talking does fuck all. Sit and blame myself, listen to others blame me, for all this shit, and find myself withdrawing further and further into myself, away from everyone around.

No one notices. No one cares. No one understands.


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