I cut.
Every morning.
Every night.

I could stop.
But I don't want to.
It's the only thing I control.

My life, career goals, expectations, etc. are all set be my family. They're extremely judgemental. They are very Christian, extreme tea partiers, complete hypocrites, and totally against everything they don't agree with. I, on the other hand, am very open minded, atheist, and a liberal. I can't say that I'm not a hypocrite because I am. But not to the extent my family is. They claim to be "good" Christians. Yet my sister and mother bore children out of wedlock. My other sister is haveing sex with a married man who has two kids. My brothers fornicate. My dad is a suicidal alcoholic who is 47 and was in a relationship with a 22 year old. I don't understand them. They don't understand me. No one does. That's why I cut. I scar easy. A simple scratch is branded on my flesh forever. I have gruesome scars. Deep, jagged. All over my upper arms, my rib cage, various places on my legs, my hips. Anywhere I can hide them. My latest fascination has been a key. A house key. Not to my home, that place doesn't even exist in my dreams, but to the house I currently reside in. It's jagged. It hurts. More than a knife. That's the important part. That it hurts more than the last. I've been to the shrinks, to the labs even. For an entire year of my life, I wasted away due to pills for my insomnia, anti-depressants, and plain carelessness. No one would even come close to guessing that I cut. I'm a good, quiet, collected student. I get straight A's. If I don't, I get punished. Hit. Beat. Raped. I should probably mention the divorce. My dad claims my mom cheated on him; my mom claims my dad cheated on her. It's completely ridiculous. I live with my mother, but I may as well live with my dad. I'm forced to stay with him since my mom doesn't want me or to take care of me. I don't care anymore. I just don't want to waste away and not be remembered. As long as someone, somewhere, somehow discovers my story, even just my name, I will live on. I want to commit suicide. I've tried. Not with a blade. With a rope. My sister walked in. That was when they sent me to the shrink, and then off to the lab I went. I was prodded. With unwanted questions. With pinpricks and injections. The staff was awful. Judgemental. They didn't understand. One did. He was like me when he was my age. Going through tests. Being questioned. He was kind. But he couldn't help. I finally arrived back home. Under careful watch 24/7. I'm finally off watch. Now would be the perfect time to commit the crime. Get the pistol from my brothers room. End it quick. My family would find my brains splattered on the wall. Then they would realize they cared. I want them to suffer. Like I have. If it wasn't for my best friend, Shane, I would. He wants a relationship. I'm not stable enough. I can't hurt him anymore. His mom is dying. Of cancer. I can't leave him alone to face it. My best friend used to be my ex, Dylan. But I hurt him. We eventually healed from that casualty. Continued talking. Continued loving. Then he got skin cancer. I helped him through it. Then he dropped me. We don't talk anymore. If he sees me, he looks away. I'm afraid Shane will do that. But I'm more afraid he'll do what I'm comtemplating right now. Suicide. Ripping himself from the binds of this life. It would only take a second. For my brain to overload and snap. My finger grazing the trigger... Bam. Gone. Dead. Lost.
vicspen vicspen
18-21, F
May 14, 2012