I lay upon my bed, immersed in deep thought about that one particular poster. It always made me ponder my choices in life, especially the ones that determine what happens to me. I always debate living, but then I always debate death. I debate whether or not to continue taking the pills, or to try and get help with my family, even though in the past I always relapsed back into this hellish depression that always consumes my life. I always come to a conclusion that it is a moot point to ever try rehab, because the pain is never ending, and I always return to taking them.
A loud knock on my door averted my gaze from the poster. I always have to compose myself before confronting people, because all they would do if they see me like this is try to comfort me and get me help. I don’t want help. I’m happy the way I am, and I do NOT want to change. Partly because I hate people, and partly because I see no future for myself; my grades suck because of my constant horrific depression and illness, I am on the edge with social workers at school because of my attendance, and mostly because I hate talking, dealing with, and even seeing people. People SUCK. Every single one, including myself.
“Chris?” Came the voice behind the door. It sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t tell if it were either Alexa or Sarah. “Chris? Please come out of your room. We want to see you for once. I want to talk to you. Please?”
“Just go away,” I said ignorantly. “I just want to be alone for once in my life. I’m dealing with enough, and it doesn’t help me talking to people because all it does is remind me about all of the bad things I’ve done in life. I relive it everyday in my head. I don’t need to hear the bullshit again from other people.”
“Chris!” Now another voice at my door. This one I knew was my mother’s, and she sounded livid. “Chris. Come out of your room NOW. We all need to talk to you. We have a deal to offer you. Ok, not necessarily a deal, but we just have an offer for you. We just want to talk.”
Another wave of crying was trying to come on. I tried my best to hold back the feeling, but it just overpowered me. I flipped on my bed again, face down, and just bawled my eyes out. I heard the footsteps outside my door fading down the hall, and my crying started to subside. I lifted my soggy, wrinkled face up from my pillow and looked to my nightstand. A small, shiny object caught my eye, and I immediately knew what it was, and I wanted it.
I opened up the small book I kept it in, and pulled out 3 things: A very sharp individual razor blade, a small Swiss Army knife, and a 6 inch hunting knife. These blades were very familiar to me, except for the hunting knife. Just looking at the razor blade and the Swiss Army knife made both of my arms burn where the countless scars and current cuts, some deep, were located.
I just sat there, looking at these ugly marks left behind from the numerous nights of me sitting there, stricken by insomnia, realizing the only way I could find peace and actually find a way to get to sleep was inflicting pain upon myself. The most recent cuts were still bleeding a little because of my heightened blood pressure pushing out the small scabs covering the cuts. I usually had a regimen of (when I actually had the sleepless night which were actually very common) cutting the equivalent amount of cuts on my arm as the date. So the last time I couldn’t sleep was the 23rd, so I had 12 new cuts on my left arm and 11 on my right. They burned when I did the cutting, but it took my mind off of the other pain, and distracted me to cleansing my wounds once I was done.
At times, depending on the severity of my sleeplessness and the thoughts going through my head, there was a lot of blood, but other times there was barely any. It just depended which blade I used and how hard I could bring myself to actually push down and dig in. I had to hide the countless bloody rags and tissues that I used to clean up the blood, because this was probably the only secret I still kept from my friends and family.
I mustered up the strength to get off of my bed and wander over to my door. I stood there for what seemed a long time just thinking about what my family and friends had been discussing in my absence, and what they wanted to talk to me about. I know it was going to confront the fact that I took two more pills when I got home in front of my mom, but I almost didn’t care. The miniscule part that I did care about was upsetting my mom and my friends, but I had no care, or dignity for that matter, about myself.
Down the hallway I heard them talking about what I had feared. I could only pick up a few things such as “We need to help him in any way we can. Whatever it takes.” “But you know how that’s worked in the past. He has almost committed suicide in rehab COUNTLESS times because of his relapse. And during all of the commotion of that happening, he escaped. And immediately went to one of his guys on the street to get his fix.”
That part of the conversation that I heard made my heart sink. I knew they meant well, but I knew myself that I couldn’t break what I have started. I knew I couldn’t reverse the damage I’ve already inflicted upon myself.
“Chris, I know you’re standing there,” called out my mom. “It’s ok. You can come in here and talk. We’re all here to help you and just be your friend. Please, come in.”
I entered the living room wearing an ashamed look on my face. I looked up at my mother and my sister on the couch, and Alexa and Sarah on individual chairs at the island in the kitchen. I walked in slowly, starting to feel the high of my pain pills setting in, and sat down in the available loveseat. I was trying to hide the glaze in my eyes and the spaced-out feeling I had, but it was nearly impossible. I felt like nothing could touch me, like I was on the top of the world. I felt no burn in my arm, no headache from the crying, nothing. It was an amazing feeling. And I already knew that this conversation was going to mean nothing because I was high. I just wanted this day to be over, and to be alone again.
