I didn't even know what it was, but I was so angry and confused and alone. I just felt so weak.
I'd already scratched across there quite a bit and it wasn't satisfying enough. So I joyfully bound up to my bathroom and dug out the blade I'd hid in my pocket. Such fun.
The knife itself was a small kitchen knife. But it was sharp, and its size made it that little bit more satisfying: small but enough to cause damage. And do you know where I first heard that... My own sister.
When I was 9. She was 12.
I didn't know. She did.
That's all we really needed.
That, and a normally functioning family.
So once again the stage was set. Locked white door. Red, almost blank canvas. What some might see as a weapon in hand. I, on the other hand, saw it as a healer. Oh, and don't forget the broken girl collapsed on her knees, staring up at the unfolded towels, that would soon be the eliminators of the evidence.
My sister, Martha, was the only one who shared the secret held between these walls with me. Now even she's gone. Off at college.
I. Just. Can't. Take. It.
I'm not strong. Even though I should be, after what he put us all through. First mum, then Martha, then there was only me left.
Tears blurred my vision as I refused to look down. I started to lift the blade. I've down this so, so many times- it scares me. But it's like a drug, at first, you're just intrigued; seen others, heard about it. But then, after your first, you're addicted. You can't stop, and if you could you wouldn't want to. It's horrid but true. It's not a solution. It never claimed to be. Sometimes, it feels like that's what you have to and are told to do: turn to self-harm. Like that's societies answer to your problems. We blame everything on stupid society now, what else is there? Other times, it's urges or reflects. But every so often, it's useful. It doesn't help much, but it's plain useful, a little tattoo of sadness. It's a little reminder it won't ever be perfect, so stop trying for it to be. A little reality, a little realism.
I let the knife make its course across my wrist, as usual. With each word, I let it out: I made a cut.
Even. Your own. Dad. Doesn't. Love. You.
Even. Your sixteen-year-old. Self can't. Fix. It.
This pain was genuine. This was real. Something I could start and stop, control. This pain didn't mess with you, it wouldn't come back for more just because it had a particularly bad day. Didn't hit you twice unless you wanted it to.
I wonder what he'd do if he knew.
Probably just hit me again and tell me to grow up and get over it. He'd tell me I have it easy.
I have it easy.
Societies reject. Best friends with cancer. And enough said about family 'problems'.
It just feels like this is what we're told to do. You're depressed, therefore, you are to self-harm.
Self-harm until you are caught, then you will get bullied for it, which in turn will cause you to do it more and why don't you cry yourself to sleep while you're at it, as well.
This pain was caused by me and me only and is for me and me only.
The blood was cool. Ironically refreshing. It stained my wrists in trails of a pretty reddish pink.
I breathed a sigh of relief...