Life Never Really Is That Simple... Is It?

Untitled Part 1

Does the pain ever stop? Living everyday on repeat and having to hide behind a smile that the hundreds of people I pass by seem to believe without question. The constant anchored thoughts that swirl continuously inside my head making me forget about the people that care, the handful of people that assure me they care. But that doesn't change anything. I'm alone in this. So on days when I get home and get asked if I am alright I reply with a simple ''Yes, I'm fine thanks,'' and I never mean it once. When people ask if you are alright they never want an answer, they don't want to bother with the hassle that comes with a ''No'' so I decide never to burden them with it. But this results in the struggles I face, the struggles of lying to family and friends and seeing them hurt once they realise the truth.

My life has been a circle of insults and pain. Pain. That was the main factor that dominated my life. It all revolved around that one word and everyone denied it but I knew what it felt like to cry myself to sleep at night and hide behind the simple mask of a smile. I've perfected the art of faking a smile and making it look real, to the extreme expense that sometimes I liked to believe the lies myself. Each of my days were the same, nobody understood how my mind worked and what was kept silent when all I wanted to do was scream. Nobody got me, nobody held my hand and supported me, and I was on my own. I was labelled 'sensitive' and 'depressed' and to be honest I didn't know what to believe about myself, there was that much stuff going off in my head.

Life was already difficult but when I was told about the passing away of my grandma things became a lot harder and my coping mechanisms of writing stories didn't work anymore. Life became more complicated and I had no one to turn to for help. My family believed I was better, I couldn't have them worrying about me and I couldn't have them feel the pain that I felt. I was there baby girl, I couldn't be this sad at the age of 13.

I remember the day I was told about my gran. Everything slowed down and I was left watching it on repeat in my head. The words tormenting me. I was pinned in with no where to run and everything seemed to close in around me. Words that I always dreaded to hear had escaped out of my dad's mouth and tumbled into and around my head. Harmonising the already vacant thoughts that echoed inside the emptiness. I had no where to run. My parents were blocking my exits. I had to calm down. I couldn't let my family see me lose control; they believed I was better so I will carry on that facade. I had to be on my own. Let everything process through my head. So I just ran. And I didn't stop running until I was in the security of my own room with my head against the bedroom door.

This had to stop. Me losing control like this. I had to get control of my feelings. But when I was sitting at the base of my door everything went into perspective. Things changed as I got older. I faced more difficulties and more pressure was put on me to succeed in life and become the amazing intelligent person my family deemed me to be. It was hard. I wasn't coping with the major change and this resulted in me getting dragged along in the current.

My body took me into the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom and I slid the lock shut behind me. I instantly went over to the cupboard, searching through the many bottles and packaging that lay scattered. That's when my fingers closed around the packet of razors. It was like my fingers knew exactly what to do, nimbly opening the lid and slowly pulling apart the pieces that held the razor together. As I walked towards the bathtub my fingers pressed lightly against the tip of the blade and before I could stop myself it went straight to my wrists, creating marks against my pale skin. The relief was instant. Watching the blood drip down from my wrist and onto the tile floor, washing away the pain. Pain. Anchored thoughts had disappeared and I was left with brief silence. It didn't hurt, not as much as the constant pain of my lies. The razors created artwork on my body as the colour of the blood contrasted the slowly paling of my skin, I enjoyed it. The pain stopped. No more pain. Relief. I numbly cleaned the razors and mopped up the floor from the only remains of my visible pain, nobody will know about this. I gently placed the razors back but I couldn't close the cabinet door. Something stopped me and I soon realised that it was the opaque, yellow bottle that was situated on the top shelf. My mum's sleeping pills. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages so this was a good option to help. Just a few to help me sleep, that's all I needed.