Loosing My Grip

 I was born Joelle Marie Giacomo to a family filled with love. I grew up as any normal child does with love and care. My world through those eyes of a child was perfect, yet inside I was falling apart... It started when I was eleven, when my world started to fall...

      I remember walking the hallways pointing out other girls and things about their bodies I wish I had. I would stand in front of my mirror picking at my skin and fat wishing I could get it cut off. Then it began to get worse. I remember going to ballet class and never remembering the routine because I was so concentrated on my body and how the other girls where tall, very thin and blonde. I was nothing like them, short, chubby, and had dark hair.  I guess my grandma noticed as well, because she began to comment on my weight, giving me slim fasts for dinner and salads instead of what she originally made. I knew then I was ugly, fat and worthless. If my grandma thought I was fat, what did everyone else think? By age twelve I began restricting my meals, trying to starve myself as long as possible. It was hard, especially for someone my age. Having to rely on my parents for everything and having to eat home every night over my parent’s watchful eye. I began to become very depressed, hating myself.  “How could anyone love me if I looked like this? Even my grandma thought I needed to be changed.” By eighth grade I came up with a better plan. I would restrict as much as possible but if I had to eat I would just throw up after words. It was a great plan! Or at least I thought it was a great way to lose this weight, the part of me that people despised, that I despised.  I also started stealing diet pills from the local pharmacy. I would ride my bike there and walked down the aisles, very nonchalantly and pick the ones I thought were the best and would have a great effect. I grabbed Trim spa, Size 0 and anything else they had on stock. Throwing up became a daily thing by freshmen year. I went from a hundred and fifteen pounds to ninety seven in about three weeks. This is when my parents started realizing that something wasn’t right. I put on an act in school and around my family, showing them a lie. Making sure they thought I was okay, putting on a mask, a show even for the people I loved.

          One day I came home from school and binged, eating cookies, popcorn, chocolate, bread, my dinner and anything else I had in the house. I proceeded to the bathroom, thinking no one was home yet. I began to vomit not thinking I was being loud, but then a knock came at the door. My dad threw the door open and saw me. His face was shocked, sad and even hurt. He just looked at me then slowly walked out of the room and called my mom. He was yelling telling her what I was doing, saying he knew it, he knew I was doing it, that I was sick. That night my mom called a counselor and made an appointment for the next day. I began Therapy at age fifteen. They diagnosed me with clinical depression and bulimia nervosa. I was sent to a nutritionist and a psychiatrist who put me on two anti-depressants, to try and help me. Instead of being helped I felt even more lost, more self conscious, more hateful towards myself and the world. It took months to finally be able to say I was a recovered bulimic. It took two days of intense therapy, nutritionist diet plans and my medication to help me stop throwing up. I was still very depressed however. I was so depressed, still so very disgusted; I began to cut myself, to ease some of my pain. I was in the middle of sophomore year when I took my first cut. It wasn’t deep, just enough to bleed; just enough to feel some kind of pain.  It was easy to cut myself, just wear long sleeves, or if my mom questioned a band aid I would say I accidently cut myself in art class. She bought it and I couldn’t care less. During this time I also started going to high school parties, drinking and doing drugs. Just like the cutting it started slow, only getting drunk or high a few times. I thought I was so cool, I even felt better about myself when I was intoxicated. Guys seemed to notice me more and actually looked interested in me. I felt pretty even, like I never felt before. I began to cut more, drink more and use drugs more. At the end of sophomore year I went to my cousin’s house to drink and smoke weed. We drank a couple beers and had some vodka shots. My cousin’s friend who drove was with us and had the idea of going to a guy’s house that had weed and only lived down the street. We all said yes and I was so pumped. I was excited to smoke and meet these guys, seeing that I heard they were very good looking. We got there and right away we rolled a blunt and smoked. I smoked the most of it and got higher than the others. This guy  showed great interest in me and I felt pretty. He held me around the waist as we walked and whispered in my ear saying how pretty I was. He started to ask me if I was interested in him, asking me if I found him attractive enough to sleep with him, and I said yes. We were sitting on the couch when he started to kiss me. I felt okay about it. Still high I kissed him back; not thinking it would go any farther. The next thing I remember is I’m on the bathroom floor having sex with a boy I just met. “Please stop, you’re hurting me" , came out only as a whisper but I knew he heard me. Once it was over he left me there and went outside with his friend to smoke again. That’s how I lost my virginity… I remember that night I cut myself the deepest I ever cut, crying and screaming to God asking him why I’m like the way I am, why I’m a coward, why I am I ugly, why am I stupid, and why am I here. The next morning I took the plan B pill and got tested. I told my therapist everything and she tried her best to help me forget. But I didn’t forget, and I didn’t stop drinking, I only started to drink more, to get high more, to cut more. With my cousin, because I was so desperate to get high, we would drink Robatussin, do triple c's and Ecstasy. I would drink myself into a stupor, throwing up or passing out at parties and doing things with guys that I don’t remember. I became so fed up with life, I hated myself. I even started to resent my family. It seemed like they couldn’t or even wouldn’t understand. My friends didn’t understand and I felt like a burden even trying to talk with them. One night in November 2008 I came home from dance class, new wounds on my arms and older scars. I went quietly to my room where I found my anti-depressants. I downed the bottle. I laid on my bed determined to die. I couldn’t wait to be at peace.  I got up, realizing after a couple minutes I didn't want to do this, tears running down my face and raced towards my dad. I told him what I just did and he quickly took me to the nearest hospital. Before I knew it I was hooked up to IV’s and a heart monitor. Doctors and counselors where in and out, asking me questions and making me sign papers. I fell asleep  and awoke to a nurse asking for me to follow her. My mom and dad were there and they held me as we walked through a door to the psyche ward. The door locked behind us and I was asked to lay on the bed. I looked around while my parents were talking with the nurse. I saw a television covered with plastic so you couldn't electrocute yourself, the bed I was sitting on had no box springs because you could slit your wrists. I laid down on the uncomfortable bed. 24 hours later after a grueling night, talking to four therapists and getting evaluated, I was sent home.  I remember for the first time smiling a true smiling walking into the sunlight. I never want to be back at that hospital, back to that night. I try not to think about it, yet sometimes it creeps into my memory.


That night scarred me, letting me realizing I am capable of taking my own life. that night didn't cure me however and I still battle with my depression and still with cutting to cope with the sadness. I shared my story with all of you and hopefully it will help. if you are battling with depression or self harm please don't hesitate to join and comment.

xoxo Joelle

joellemarie7 joellemarie7
18-21, F
1 Response Feb 7, 2010

I'm depresed all the time but thats as far as it go's.... I don't have any friends and I don't even care any more not saying I wouldn't like one just don't have any but I do try now & then just with no luck...... That kind of makes u give up on life to...... <br />
Good luck we may find someone to love yet........