Monday, December 15, 2008

Hey, a Depressing Story! There Just Aren't Enough of THESE in Blogs!!

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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