My eleventh birthday was the worst I had ever experienced.
Fights between guests erupted and my mom- who was, at the time- unaware to my nonexistent social life & bullying, thought she would bring a girl to my party who hated my very existence. So many things happened that night, none of them good. That was the earliest documentation I have of my self-hatred (I keep a journal).
I was eleven, and I had thoughts of killing myself. I. was. in. grade. six. (fifth grade for you Americans ;))
On a walk the next day, my parents were fighting. I- mistakenly- yelled of my self-hatred, right there in front of them. They took it as a joke, and i fooled myself. But it wasn't a joke. I became Pro-Ana in grade eight, and everyone was oblivious to it. I began cutting, not out of self-loathe (although it seemed a nice release at the time), but because I needed a way to hide my lack of menstruation. I had become a skeleton, and only o n e person noticed. This girl, she forced me to eat. She started out small, but she made sure I ate- and kept my food in. I yelled and kicked and screamed and fought and did everything in my power to resist it, but she remained calm. Forcing me to eat. She left me, over that summer. she had a phone, we exchanged numbers, but she was gone. I saw her, I knew she was alive and okay, but she didn't text me. and I understood- who would want to text ME, the FREAK? I turned to self-harm, this time to make me hate myself less. (she had helped me overcome the anorexia, to the point where I would eat a good amount and keep it in.)
The first "true" self-harm scar I made was across my stomach. i had used the blade from a pencil sharpener and bY gOd It StUnG but the blood- oh, the blood- made it worth it. I felt pretty, with that cut. I liked it. (I still have that scar. its horrifying. I want it to fade...) I did more. Once my stomach was littered I went to my thighs, knowing my mom would question my arms. I had made, at one of my lowest points, a vow to the "voice" in my mind- a promise to relapse daily. I kept it. The feeling of a blade on my skin, the welling of blood, managed a smile through the pain. I wasn't considering suicide at this point; I was too high from the euphoria of cutting. Cutting is a drug, in essence. Its a lethal addiction.
And then, grade nine. The girl was back. But she n o t i c e d something was off with me. She asked me to dress out in front of her and I did, and her face... It almost made me regret cutting. She started crying, hugging me, talking in gibberish to me. I didn't hug back. More than I regretted the cutting, I regretted my existence. my first attempt was the instant I got home from school. I took all the sleeping pills I had- I don't remember how many, but it wasn't a lot- and waited. I didn't die (obviously). I was sent to a facility and I wont talk about that, because that place made me hate myself more and I decided that next time I attempted, I would go all the way through with it. Years passed, I relapsed, blah blah blah. The girl and I had become close- we were entirely open with each other. I came out as gay (technically im lesbian, bUT IM NOT CIS SO I USE GAY SHHHH((((: ) and she came out as pan. She proposed recovery after telling me her depression, and I reluctantly agreed. I was really bad, then. I was plotting my suicide for that afternoon, and her talking to me helped me stop.
Now? My blades are flushed. I dont threaten suicide /as much/. Urges and triggers are still there, but its becoming easier to suppress. My blades are flushed, the girl and I are dating, my weight is back in the triple digits, and things are looking okay. She has given me what I wanted from the blades. She has given me happiness, and god, I hope this never passes.
My advice to people is to keep your head up. Because there is someone, someone out there, who cares about you. I care. And I want you to smile, smile even when- especially when- life gives you hell, because I can promise you that wont last. Put down the blades.
Stop. Hurting. Yourself.
I love you all x
