āAre people who self harm just looking for attention?ā
I cut myself for the first time when I was fifteen.
My stepmother and father were in the middle of moving. They left me at home, with the instruction to make pancakes with a walnut filling for them while they were gone. I had a vague idea of how to make pancakes, but absolutely no idea how to make that damned walnut filling. I had never cooked by myself before. They had taken my phone and computer from me the night before, and the cookbooks they owned were already in the new apartment, so I couldnāt look up a recipe. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the eggs, milk and nuts, and just felt desperate while my own thoughts crushed me.
I knew I would get in huge trouble if I didnāt make those pancakes right. Whenever my stepmother cooked and ordered me to help her, she watched my hands like a hawk. Whenever I cut the pieces too big or small, I took too long for something or my fingers were trembling, she would yell at me or even smack my hands, because āIām just trying to piss her off by acting stupidā. I could clearly hear her voice in my head when I tried to think of a way to mix those ingredients together. I heard her yelling at me that Iām an incapable, dumb bitch. That I canāt be trusted with the simplest tasks because Iām too stupid to survive. With every passing minute, I grew more desperate. If they returned home to no pancakes, I would get a verbal whooping that would last for hours. My fear was so overwhelming, I couldnāt cry enough to get it all out. No matter what I would do now, it would end in drama. If I attempted to make the filling and failed, it would result in abuse. If I didnāt make it, abuse. If I asked her for help, abuse. If they would find out I asked a neighbor, abuse. I had no choice but to magically know how to make that goddamn filling. But I didnāt, of course.
It was like I was blinded by my fear and desperation entirely. I mindlessly grabbed the knife in front of me. I was inches away from stabbing it right into my chest, but of course, I couldnāt do that. I was too much of a coward. But I did slide it across my shoulder. Gently. It barely left a mark. I did it again, but with more pressure. It started to hurt. But it felt so good. So relieving. I could actually get all the pain inside me to the outside. So I just kept cutting my shoulder, again, and again, and again. It was so satisfying. I felt so good. But suddenly, I panicked. Shit. If my parents saw this, Iād be in deep shit. I was convinced they would murder me. I quickly grabbed some tissues and tried to wipe the blood away, thinking what I should do now, and hating myself for what Iād done.
Tissues werenāt meant for me to use! I wasnāt supposed to use plasters, either! If they noticed some missingā¦!
All I could think of was to put on a long sleeved shirt and stuff some toilet paper between the shirt and my shoulder. I cleaned the knife. I hid the bloody tissues in my schoolbag, planning to throw them away at school, and begging the heavens they wouldnāt find them. I regretted what Iād done immediately.
When my stepmother and father returned home, of course, I had not been able to make the filling for the pancakes. As expected, they seated me at the kitchen table, and verbally attacked me for hours. About how stupid I am, that I just ruin their lives, and they wished they would have never adopted me. But for once, I was numb. I was concentrating on the burning feeling on my skin, where I had self harmed. It felt so good. The pain distracted me from their attacks. It kept me busy while I had to endure them. Butā¦ my stepmother saw a dark stain on my shirt. I had bled through the toilet paper and not realized it soon enough. When she discovered the cuts on my shoulder, the gate to hell had opened up. I still remember the panic I felt then. I wanted her to punch me so hard, it would kill me. I felt so guilty and dumb, for being unable to hide it. She wasnāt upset about the self harm itself, per se. But rather about the fact that I was āattention seekingā and āplaying the victimā. She sent me to my room.
āNext time when you cut yourself, do it in the bathtub. I donāt want to see any more stains on your clothes.ā
Now, look me in the eyes and tell me that I was looking for attention.
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
prguitarman
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
