You asked me if I was depressed. I said no. Two hours later, I fell down another pit of emotions so deep I didn't know if I could get out. It's crazy how you could feel like you're at rock bottom but find more pits leading farther down. My friend, the best one I had after she moved away, cut her wrists. Whenever she could get the chance, whenever she was home alone, she took a knife from the kitchen and cut her arms. It’s crazy how that all started with one bad night she had after she broke up with her first real boyfriend, where she fell into the first pit, the one you think you’ll eventually crawl out of, and scratched her arm until it bled. She told me about it the day after, and for the next few days all I could see were my own arm, the pale, soft wrists, and how easy and relieving it would be to watch the blood stream down them. About a month later, I scratched at my arms. It hurt at first, but soon I got used to it. I did it every week, figuring out a schedule of how quickly my arms healed before I could scratch them again and not leave anything too noticeable after it all. Skip forward to January, I skip class for the first time. That night, I berated myself for being stupid, and I scratched my arm until it bled, and then some more. About a week later, the same friend told me how she used knives from her kitchen, and I had an idea. I went into your workbench, dad, and took out a razor. I didn't want to cut an artery or a tendon, so I cut the skin on my wrist bone. I wanted to feel pain. I wanted to feel the same pain I felt on the inside, from being closeted as Ace/homoromantic, from internalizing literally everything people say to me, from finally talking to my therapist about the hard stuff after almost 6 months because I didn’t want to burden her with my problems, for not being accepted by my friends, for all of it, on the outside. And so I cut, and I scratched, and I bit the inside of my cheek every time I had to go out in public because I could just feel everyone staring at me, judging me. I hated myself. You asked me if I was depressed. I said no. You asked me if I was okay. I said yes. I had my answers mixed up. I couldn’t see myself living past 11th grade at most. I still can’t. I wanted to die. I never told anyone. I’d rather suffer in silence than feel like I’m annoying anyone. Cuts on my arm hurt less than the fear of not being accepted, hurt less than the constant exhaustion from depression. The only place I thought I could be accepted was online. I hated myself. I didn't want to exist anymore. But don't feel bad that you couldn't see it. I didn’t want to annoy anyone or bother someone with my needy, ungrateful problems. I’m sorry that I felt like you couldn’t understand, but you couldn’t. I lost the will to live. I lost the sense of self. I lost any feeling of living and just went through life in a haze. I didn’t care about anything. I honestly wished I hadn't ever been born. But I’m okay now. But I’m not. I still hate myself. I still wish I hadn’t been born. But now I’m getting help. And I’m less not okay (that makes sense to me).
gummygunk
vaporwave
titsay
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
