A Story To Be Read And Forgotten: Perhaps I Shall Try Again.

(I took out names of my friends and ex-boyfriend at the end...I don't know.)

Four years I have been like this, and so far it is for only four years that I can remember conscious thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it is all for attention, like somewhere unknown to me, I am calling out to my parents or my friends for their thoughts to stay only upon me…But I don’t think that this is why.

It started in seventh grade and I cannot remember why. Later on, over an internet conversation, I found out that two of my only friends were depressed and attempting the same thing. It is weird to me now, because I often comfort myself in times which I am most depressed with that last year in America- seventh grade and yet I was feeling almost the same out of place feeling there as well.

I started off small, using the scissors that I bought from school to cut out flowers on colorful sheets of paper, and I savored the short pain as I pinched the small lumps of skin between the blades. My heart beat faster, but it was the pain that woke me up from the darkening world that I thought I saw. I told myself that I was a coward, a spineless craven being and I would need to train myself for the day that I would be brave enough to give into the pain and let my heart pump as fast as it wanted as my blood would escape me. I have eight small, almost fingernail sized scars, ugly and white against the side of my left forearm, gathered separately perhaps months apart and soon covered with a Band-Aid. If someone asked, I said that either I had been bitten by a spider, which happened often enough in my relatively new home, or bitten by a mosquito to which I put the Band-Aid there to prevent me from scratching at it. I began to think as though I was made on this earth just to work up to killing myself.

I remember when I was very young, so young that I still thinking in colors and still frames, feeling an immense weight on my heart. I hid in the corner of my darkened sitting room and wept softly for this emotional pain to cease. My mother found me and asked me why I was crying and even then I lied to her and said some bull answer like ‘my great grandma is dead and I didn’t get to know her’. I cried in my mother’s closet many times during seventh grade and curled up into a nest of her things. I still don’t know why it is that I cry.

I moved then, to a whole different continent and a whole different world, and for a while I was excited. Something new would happen and with this new thing I would be happy. My life had suddenly been dedicated to making me happy. But I was not ‘happy’. No one in this new place gave me a second look and in eighth grade, the last grade at this middle school, everyone already had their friends and there was no room for me.

There soon came a ‘numbness’ that seemed to cloud my eyes and my ears. I secluded myself. For God’s sake, I ate my lunch in the disgusting bathroom stalls outside my locker! I hated myself. I didn’t want ANYONE to look at me, talk to me, or notice me in any way shape or form. I wanted to ‘go home’- I kept telling myself that I wanted to ‘go home’. But this new place that I lived was not home and I soon realized that I did not know where home was. That was when I began to fall.

First it was bits and pieces of a broken glass figure that I had found. The tiny shards left even smaller cuts than my scissors had and I was unsatisfied but still felt that I was not ready to do the job. I was scared.

I got a paper cutter, one of those little things that you hold like a pencil that has a thin blade with a tiny point. I found it in my mother’s old arts and crafts boxes. She doesn’t do stuff like that anymore. I remembered reading something in sixth grade about a girl who cut herself with cookie cutters, just let the edges of the Santa Claus’ and gingerbread men sink into her wrists and after she blamed it on her cat. I would blame anything that looked like a cat scratch on the stray cats that I saw around my front garden. The paper cutter didn’t work very well because of its small blade and my slicing got more jagged and slowly inched closer to the untouched blue veins on the inside of my wrist. My paper cutter rusted over before not three scars arose.

By this time the dark blinds that covered my senses were fully drawn- I walked to school with one song on replay (‘Mama’ which depicted the apparent fact that ‘we all go to hell’) and with every step I repeated in my head a simple phrase. Step, ‘I want’, step, ‘to die’, step, ‘I want’, step, ‘to die, etc. That song made me sad; I liked it.

My dad was upset with me, I can’t remember why, and he left with my perfect little sisters to go out some place, I don’t remember where. As soon as the door closed, I ran upstairs to my room and grabbed a special something that I had ripped from its manufactured place. The razors from my shaver would do nicely for the kind of grief that I was looking to get rid of. It was dark and I looked out the window at the damned country that I was forced to live in and dragged the razor down the upper part of my arm. This time I wasn’t aiming to die, just forget if not for a few moments. I forgot and only stopped when my hand was covered in a dark liquid that I could not see in the dark; I knew what is was. I would blame the stray cats which I played with in my front garden, but my parents never noticed so I didn’t need an excuse.

Five markings found their place on my leg, three small lines grouped high on my thigh and I forgot about my obsessive boyfriend whom I was forced to dump, the twelve late assignments due over the past month in school, and my mother’s flip flopping personality jumping on me and not giving me space. Two longer, less organized lines finished the five marks. Higher up this time, I hated myself, I hated the want that I craved. I wrote a list on my computer of all the things that I wanted, but couldn’t possibly have. I wanted someone to understand and I wanted the darkness to go away. Along with this, perhaps most of all, I wanted to die. But I was scared.

The closest that I came to killing myself, my failed attempt, was when me and my mother had a large argument about grades since that was ALL that she talked about whenever she was talking to me…She reminded me of how much I hated myself by pointing out my flaws, which I knew far better than she. That woman never left me alone. I told her- I TOLD her to leave well enough alone in as many ways as possible. She called me immature, a five year old! She said that if she left me alone then my school work still wouldn’t get done. MY SCHOOL WORK. I was on the edge; my whole world was the same thing over and over, like Groundhog Day and she was still pestering me, metaphorically poking my rotting corpse with a stick (because in my mind I was already dead) worrying only about my schoolwork.

My mother switched off the power on the floor that my room was on and in the dark I fumbled to the bathroom and grabbed my razors. I was overwhelmed and fully believed that I would kill myself in the guestroom’s bathroom that night. She would wonder where I was the next morning, the school would call reporting that I had not shown up for school, and she would search for me in a blind rage up to my bedroom where I would not be. She would soon let the rage of her will seep out of her after calling a few people and realizing that I had made no plans with friends to skip school. Now with her rage gone she would worry- where is her child? She would run around the house wondering if perhaps I had decided to sleep someplace else and then she would find me, drained of my lifeblood, cold and long dead since the night before in the middle of her clean guestroom bathroom, which had never been used because no one ever visited us.

I hacked at my arm, in the same blind rage that seems to be hereditary in my family, taking my revenge out on myself. It was dark in the small bathroom with only a little light coming in through the foggy window above me and perhaps this was my mistake. I literally could not see so I assumed that when I hit the right place I would know and in the long run I did. After my rage subsided I realized what I had done. I could still not see anything but my feet became slightly sticky when I stood up, perhaps to try and examine my work, and my head spun. I began thinking in colors again as I lay down on the cool tiles, my bleeding wrist trapped between my stomach and the ugly floor and fell asleep.

Upon awaking I was saddened that I had stopped my act, why had I made the quick decision to put my weight on the cuts? People would stare now, they would point. I hate myself even more- why did I do that?

 

I feel as though my next time will be my last and that my training has worked me through these past emotionally painful years and I regret nothing. I have stopped for the time being, but… I can feel hands closing around me, squeezing, engulfing. There is a pressure and also a fear. I fear my mother because she has said both that she had given up on my future and that she sometimes wishes to kill me. I can imagine someone reading this to her and she will scoff or chuckle in the degrading way that she always does that makes need feel so small that I want to burst into tears. What a ridiculous, adolescent, thing of Haley to say! She would never do that…

Before I go, I don’t know what I want to do. Perhaps I could email ____ or _____, but what would I say? ____ never checks her email anyway. Perhaps I could tell ___ that I was just running away from his obsessive love and avoiding talking to him about it because I was afraid? ___ has a new love of his life now; I wouldn’t want to bother him…

I’ve never had plans for the future because I don’t ever remember having a ‘bright’ future; I don’t remember having a future at all.

PeelingBlackPaintedWalls PeelingBlackPaintedWalls
18-21, F
Mar 10, 2010