The Wires Case [ h.s ]

chapter 63

tw mentions of selfharm, scars and cuts and mentioning (lighlty) a depressive episode

Brooke Wires

Waking up with an intense pain going up my leg, I can't help but whimper. Turning around so my leg left isn't the one against the mattress, I finally open my eyes.

Feeling them puffy and incredibly swollen, I stare around Harry's room, taking in the events of last night, and the last few days. Or what I can remember of them.

They say depression is just a barrier that puts a pause to your life for a period of short time. They also say that it isn't real, that why would someone so young feel so sad when nothing has happened to them? What they don't realize though, it's that sometimes depression puts an end to your life. It consumes you until your limbs are numb and your heart frozen over as if all the tears shedded dripped into it and turned to ice, caging it forever underneath your sadness.

Fighting against it isn't easy, as much as it might seem you only have to get out of bed. I wish people would realize that depression goes beyond being sad, or not being able to get out of bed.

Feeling the excruciating headache across my head, and the pain moving up my leg, I'm not about to deny I am depressed. Because I know I am. I've been since I was a child. Luckily for me, my depression wasn't the type to make me lay down hors and hours without being able to do anything. Instead, it was the worst one. The one where you keep going with your life while sadness is all you fucking know. The one that with every step pulls you more under and the one that doesn't seem to let you catch a breath.

The one that, no matter how much you mention it, isn't diagnosed.

So therefore, you feel like you're going crazy. Because you know you're not alright, but there's no one backing up that statement.

I've felt countless things growing up. Some were good, most of the others were bad. But the one I've felt the most was the uncertainty of not knowing why I was like this. Why my thoughts we're this way, why my insecurities would get the best of me, why did I feel like I couldn't be loved, why didn't I love myself, why, why, why and just why.

It's all resumed to that: a why that didn't have any answer.

And that made me spiral. So badly that I started hurting myself in order to stop the perpetual question in my mind.

As I sit up hardly, I stare at my stretched out left leg, specifically at the bandage covered in blood at the superior part of my thigh. Taking a deep breath, I make the effort to finally get out of bed, knowing that if I opened the wounds, I need to get them cleaned up.

I place my right left on the floor normally, but as I try to do the same with my left one, I let out a moan of pain and I inhale a couple of times as I try to fight away the dizziness clouding my head.

Holy shit. This one hurts.

I've been self harming since I was 16. From the most faded scars to the deepest ones, my thighs—especially my left—hold a history of my pain better than any other part of my body. I'm not proud of them, really. But it's just the only way I know to quiet my brain.

When you're alone, as if not having anyone you can rely on truly, not even your closest friend or your family, you just find other ways. Other ways to be heard, to be seen.

It's hard explaining one's problems to others. Trust isn't something you know a person will provide you fully and truthfully, so taking your shot could be good, or it could end up badly. Since I've never trusted anyone, I've never taken my shot.

But that makes me wonder that if I did, maybe things would have been different, and my thighs wouldn't hold too much history.

Or it could have been worse.