So... quick trigger warning. This is my story, I'm talking about suicide and cutting and depression. If this bothers you, or if you feel like being a dick, don't read it.
I held the blade to my wrist, willing myself to do it. I pressed a little harder... And I couldn't. I took some deep breaths and tried again, but I couldn't. "Everyone's right, you're nothing. It doesn't even matter anyway. Just do it." But I couldn't. In frustration, I moved the blade higher up my arm and angrily slashed. It burned a little; it hurt a little; but it sliced through the white noise in my head. The voice urging me to kill myself just went silent. The film that had been endlessly playing in my imagination; who would discover my body, how my family would react; just stopped. I was alone. Just me, and blood, and pain. I ran to the bathroom, cleaned and dressed my arm and rolled my sleeves down. Then I went about my life, just as I always had.
The voice came back, of course, but it wasn't telling me to end it, it was telling me to cut again. I ignored it as long as I could, until it started pointing out things I could hang myself from. So I figured "It worked the last time..." I waited until I was alone, I cleaned and sterilized the knife I had chosen. I locked my bedroom door and sliced timidly into my thigh. There was a little blood, but not enough pain, so I cut a parallel line, then another and another until I was shaking too much to hold the blade. Once again, I washed my leg, I rolled my pants down, and I went about my life.
This was how I coped for months, until summer came. See, hiding the cuts was easy; but I forgot about the scars. My mom spotted them, and asked me about them. She didn't believe whatever lies I told her, so she kept asking me about them until I finally told her what I'd been doing. She couldn't understand at all. She sent me to the psychiatrist her insurance covered. I walked into the Dr.'s office and he handed a prescription across his desk, that was all.
So I took this antidepressant for a few years, and I suppose I was better. Everyone else seemed to like me better, what did it matter how I felt? But I didn't feel better. The pills kind of just took the sharp edges off of all my emotions, so I didn't feel so sad anymore, but I didn't feel so happy either. I didn't really live, I just existed.
I stopped taking the pills and I got worse. I asked for help, but I didn't feel like I was understood. People kept trying to fix me, but I didn't think I was broken. I finally decided I would have to help myself, so I started reading a lot of self-help books, and books about depression and happiness. I wrote a lot of really bad poetry, then threw it out lest it be discovered by family. I probably need therapy of some sort, but that takes more money than I have, and I feel like my parents will send me back to a Rx-er, not a doctor. I'm mostly better now, I haven't cut in five years. I can't say I'll never do it again though. I just really don't know. If I ever feel that overwhelmed again, I may. I hope it doesn't get that bad.
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