I didn’t used to understand why people would do this to themselves. Why they would hold a sharp object in their hand and use it to slice their skin. Why they would cut themselves, over people. Now, I do.
I was young. Just this little girl with a premature mind set thinking she knew everything she was supposed to, and couldn’t understand why everyone else didn’t. Why no one seemed to understand life the way she did. All it was was a hop, skip, jump and things could be right when they’re wrong. It was simple. I had friends, and then I lost them. Figure out why I lost them. Just a simple problem that could be solved. It tore me for years that I couldn’t solve it. I didn’t realize how complex people were.
I was a depression-less depressed kid. I would always cry in the bathroom or in my room alone and tell no one – not even my parents or siblings – about it. It’s not like I could tell myself that I was immature about it because at that time I didn’t really know. I would break down… and then get up the next day. There were times I wanted to give up, but my hopes were still pretty strong. I would convince myself with “when you get older things will get better” and “once you’re finished with school, you’ll be free to be whoever you want to be” and “You’ll make new friends and start a new life”. And it worked. I would have a break down, cry over the issue at hand, convince myself that things could get better someday, sleep it off. Begin again. It was important for me to sleep it off, because I’d wake up the next day completely forgetting why it was important to me in the first place. Like a mental reset, and I was good to go.
There were times where it was much more difficult for me to sleep the issue off, reset. And I would contemplate things I weren’t proud of. I would contemplate harming myself. I would think about cutting myself. Once, I contemplated burning my right pinkie but chickened out when I had the opportunity. I contemplated suicide. But didn’t have the heart to do so. These were all mere thoughts without enough passion to drive me to do so. I dropped them. Knowing it was crazy, thinking people shouldn’t have that much power over me. That I could be the better person. That self-harm would do me no good, that it’s just a thing weak people do to relieve themselves. Believing that no one has that power to push me over my limits. I was strong. And naïve.
What was once black and white became different shades of grey. And all I could see was the black in the white and the white in the black, like yin and yang, but without the balance. I was blind to what I was seeing. I couldn’t really see, beyond what was in front of me. I couldn’t see.
Towards the end of high school, I became a better version of myself but I wasn’t complete. I knew I wasn’t complete and I tried not to let it bother me as much. I was content with who I was and didn’t even consider harming myself. I thought this was it. This was me beating the depression, and soar higher. But this was the high before the fall.
I started University, and that’s when my mentality changed drastically.
It started out as monthly mental breakdowns, which turned to weekly 2-3 day periods of bad moods. Like I was self-conscious of every move I made and reflected it upon myself and everyone around me. Was it okay? Was that me? Is that who I am? It went on long enough to involuntary restless nights. Unproductive days. Loss of appetite. Helplessness. Inability to make my own decisions – even small decisions – like whether I wanted to eat or not after haven’t eaten the entire day. Like whether I should call my mum or not, or beat myself up over not calling her or not. I would sit there for torturous minutes unable to decide, and it drove me to tears of frustration. It made me want to pull my heart out. Pull my heart out! Rip it out my chest and crush it in my hands. But, I physically can’t.
The days don’t end. They were like one continuous story that has no end, instead of 24 hours’ cycles that start, end and repeat. Laying down on the bed at the end of the day knowing it wasn’t the end of it, waking up the next without wanting to because I didn’t want to walk through the rest of it. No goals, no achievement. No expectations. And no hope for a miracle. No wishes. No plans. None of it. No good intentions, just wanting to get through it without falling apart. Just waiting for something awful to happen, and knowing the small bad things that happens every day will come.
And when they do – not if, when – I’ll be tearing myself up. Trying not to tear myself will be tearing myself up. Twisting the passionate rage for people towards myself. And I can’t stop my thoughts. I just want to stab this pencil right through my stomach. I want to stab this pencil through my heart. I want to cut all of my hair off. I want to scratch my face off. I want to scratch my heart out. I want to… I want to… I want…
I want to not be here. But this is where I have to be. Around all these
stupid normal people doing all these stupid normal things, causing me to have these stupid thoughts. Say these out loud, and I’ll be taken away to a mental institute.
At the end of day, alone in my room, I’d feel the frustration beneath my skin, itchy. And I just want to scratch them off. Pull them off of me. I’d start scratching myself or rubbing ferociously trying to… what? Get off nonphysical pests? It won’t work. I need something physical, something I can physically get off me since I can’t fix this mentally. And that’s how it starts, the helplessness. The inability to shake off my helplessness. The inability to be normal and not have my endless inner dilemma. The weight on my chest that won’t get off. And wanting it all to end, or to simply not exist.
I don’t want to be alive. But I don’t want my death to drive another person to depression. I wish I didn’t exist in the first place. My existence isn’t something I could erase.
I’d sit there contemplating my death. With enough passion to decide which way is the best way to go. Like flipping through a mental magazine of “10 Easy Ways to Die”, quick and painful or slow and painless. Like a menu and I can’t decide which I want. Though I can’t order. I won’t order. I’m fighting against it. I can’t make the move. I won’t make the move.
And if it’s not death I want, I just want to leave a mark. On myself. I want to do something with these seemingly useless hands. I want to leave a line. I want to leave a scar. I want to see the bruises instead of feeling the emotional ones. I want to leave a mark. I want to beat it out of me. I want to cut it out of me. This hollowness, I want to fill it with my blood because I ran out of self-love.
Tears are no longer enough. I want to leave a mark.
I haven’t… yet.