One of the worst, most powerful of sounds is the sound of a person and their voice as it cracks whilst they speak trying to prevent themselves the most awful sensation of crying.
And yes crying can cause relief as your pain streams down your face and quiet sobs, contained pants or wailing screams echo against the hollow walls or open plains of ones chosen breaking location.
But the aching headache, blocked nose, tight chest and red swollen eyes are side effects that make that short relief dissappear almost entirely.
Why?
Maybe its because one cannot gain relief without causing more pain and discomfort.
Or perhaps its sickening and tiring swallowing one tablet after another to remove the side effects of relief.
Should relief not cause discomfort afterwards but rather a lasting calm?
So crying is out. Now what have we done?
We drag razor blades, sharpener blades, crafting blades and knives and needles and broken glass and the edges of paper and long nails and sewing equipment and scissors and peelers and splintered wood and broken metal and thin cardboard and our teeth and sharpened pencils and virtually anything sharp across our thin, whole skin.
We take lighters, stove tops to things that can conduct heat to burn ourselves. Ice and salt to our skins.
We ram our soft tissue and fragile fists into counter tops and walls and tables and chairs and cupboards and windows and sometimes even our supposedly fragile fists into our skin to bruise.
Yes there are millions of reasons behind self harm and depression and suicide and everything of relativity.
But through every story, lecture, educational speech, website, discussion every single one of these cases have a happy ending.
Isn't that awesome? Yay it will get better! We are stronger than this! Recovery begins here!
Fuck your self righteous ideologies and positivity.
It does not always get better.
We are not always stronger.
What about the girl you told to 'laugh it off!'
Please tell me how is she expected to laugh with ropes tied around her neck, the small thin fibres digging into her soft skin upon her neck. Tears fighting down her cheeks and ragged breaths constricted by pressure of this oh so laughably tight rope. And as she kicks this chair and her body swings eerily back and forth, please tell me how much she laughed before that.
And the boy you told to 'smile! It gets better!'
Please just tell me how he is supposed to smile with his lips wrapped around a gun. And when his brain is splattered against the wall I want you to tell me how smiley he truly was.
And when you see your best friend, family member, coated in blood gushing and pulsating from self inflicted wounds, I want you to hang your head in shame, disgust, regret as you tell me those words you told them as you realise how undoubtedly pathetic and utterly irreversibly useless they were.
