A Rose In The Dark

Epilouge

I stand in front of this sea of expectant faces. The nerves fill my stomach, and I feel as though I am going to vomit.

But I have to do this. The next step in my recovery. My therapist, Charlotte, has been helping to me prepare for this.

Mama said that I didn't have to share this. 'It's very personal" she told me.

But I want to.

I want to open everyone's eyes to what's truly happening. What's behind the facade.

So I take a deep breath, and start speaking.

'Self harm. Anxiety. Perfectionism. Suicide. Body Image.

You've heard of those? What do you picture for them? Do you picture a maniac, or someone 'normal'. Or do you even picture anything at all?

Do any of you know what any of those are actually like?

Some of you will. Some of you would have personally gone through some of those things.

Some of you would have told someone. Some of you would have kept it hidden.

Because it's embarrassing, right? No one needs to know about your problems... you don't want to burden them. You'll just annoy them. Actually, you annoy them anyway. You don't deserve them.

And so you go through this pain alone. Not telling anyone. And it just get s worse and worse. But you still don't tell anyone. You still don't want to burden them.

Then it gets to the point where you can't go a day without crying. Without it all overwhelming you. Without you cutting yourself. Without you starving yourself. Without you contemplating what it would be like to end your life.

Then that kid says it. Does it. Points it out. Your insecurities. And you are destroyed on the inside.

But don't let them see. Don't let them notice. They can't find out. That would be terrible. The worst. You really would have to kill yourself then.

So you bury it down until you get home. You bury it down until your parents leave. Then you get out the knife. The scissors. Anything sharp. Anything will do.

And you slice it across your skin. The pain feels good. And you deserve it.

You watch as the lines of blood multiply as you repeat this, telling yourself it's what you deserve.

Once you're satisfied- well, as close to satisfied as you'll ever be- you stop. You sit against the wall, back pressed against it, curled into a ball. The tears fall from your eyes as you study the cuts you made.

What if someone sees?

And you spiral down this black hole of self hatred. You can't see the light. You go to bed, and can't remember what happy is.

The next day, you arrive at school. You smile. Everything is fine.

Even though it isn't.'

Silence. Almost as bad as the jeering I was convinced I was going to get.

A sharp sound cuts through the silence. I jolt. Then I realise it's a clap. A lonely voice.

Then more join it. More and more and more.

Where I thought there would be jeering, there is cheering. Where I thought there would be boos there are screams of 'good job!' and 'awesome!' Where I thought there would be anger, there is tears. Tears of recognition, and understanding.

I feel confused. Happy. Almost worried.

But one thing over rules them all.

I feel alive.