Thighs

I look around and see people everywhere. I see girls in the corner gossiping about who hooked up with who this weekend. I see a group of guys to my left having burping contests and throwing food at each other. I glance to my right and see the teachers table. They all look so miserable. I wonder if any of them feel the way I do. Suddenly, there are hands around my eyes and girls shrieking behind me. How wonderful, my friends are here. My best friend, Sara, sits beside me and begins to rant about what she did with her boyfriend the weekend before. I love Mondays for this reason. Everyone around me is shrieking and going on about anything and everything. Nobody really notices if I'm quiet, and if they do, I just use the "I hate Mondays" excuse.

My name is Heather Brown. You see, my life isnt awful. Really, it isn't bad. I'm pretty popular at school and my parents give me pretty much everything that I want. What do I have to be depressed about? Nothing. Honestly, I hate the word. Depressed. What does it even mean? It means you're sad all of the time? It means you're suicidal? I have no clue. All I know is that's what my therapist calls me. And hey, he's the doctor. But really, I'm not sad all of the time. I mean, I'm not happy either. I'm just, numb. I don't feel real. I don't feel alive.

I go throughout my day saying hi to anyone who waves at me in the hall. Laughing with my friends, flirting with boys between classes, just a typical day. But when I get home my mood swings uncontrollably. I can't stand to be around my family and even more, can't stand to hear them speak. Everything they do today drives me mad. I look around my room. I hardly ever leave it. I glance at my clock and notice the time; 9:15. Thank God.

I walk to the bathroom with my book. My brother tries to talk to me, but I just ignore him. He's so obnoxious sometimes. And today, I'm not in the mood to deal with it. I close the door behind me and turn the lock. A sigh slips from my lips and I finally feel at peace. I reach beneath the lid of the toilet and grab what I was looking for. I pull out the transparent bag and examine it. It's soaked on account of it's placing and it's got eight tiny blades inside. I pulled them out of a razor that I used to use to shave my legs. God was that hard. I run the bath and begin to slip out of my clothes. Leg after leg I get into the bathtub. I slink down into the steaming water and take a deep breath. This is my favorite part of the day. It's the only place I can really think, really focus on myself. The feeling of nothing washes over me again. I reach to my left and grab the bag. Slowly, I put my hand in the bag and grab three blades out. I run my fingers along them to make sure they're still sharp. I'm not disappointed when red beads of blood appear on the tips of my fingers. I wipe it off and move to my thigh. It's so stereotypical to cut your wrists, that if anyone suspected anything that's where they would look. So I avoid my wrists. I wipe the water off of my thigh with my hands before placing my left hand on my knee. I take the blade and press it against my skin. The coolness of the metal and the warmth of the bath is calming. Before I draw any lines on my leg, I take a deep breath and feel relaxed.

Watching the vital fluid we call blood ooze out of my leg I close my eyes and imagine everything else ooze out. The jealousy I feel towards others, the anger I feel when my parents argue, everything. Everything I have ever had a problem with, gone at the draw of a blade.

I want to tell someone. But I want them to be able to understand me. I know if I tell my mom, or Sara, they're just going to feel bad for me, or turn it around and make it about themselves because of how sad they are. Honestly, I don't think it's a sad thing. I think it's a wonderful, soothing thing. Cutting myself. Yes, technically I am harming myself. But I look at it differently. I am harming my physical being to heal my emotional being. And being hurt emotionally is way worse than being cut.

The next day was worse. My friends began distancing themselves from me. I'm almost positive it's because I've been different. I haven't tried to, but I haven't tried to be the same either. I just don't care anymore. I don't care about being popular, I don't care if my friends are mad at me, or if I'm making good grades. Why should I? It's just high school. Eventually I'll grow up and leave. And is it going to matter if I got a C in algebra? No. It's not. Then after I leave, I'm going to live a rotten slow life then eventually die. And nothing will matter then. Nothing.

I go home and it's the same routine again. Except tonight, I am more violent. I slash at my thighs deep and fast. Constantly crying and muttering harmful words to myself. It's becoming nightly. And the pain is working less and less to make me better.

When I leave the bathroom, clothes on, hair dry, my mom stops me.

"Heather, are you okay?" She asks me worried.

"Of course mom. Why wouldn't I be?" I lied so smoothly.

"You just seem... Sad." She shrugged off and continued walking down the hall.

I hate lying to her but how do I tell her? That I'm depressed, and I cut myself every night, that I don't want to live anymore. I can't I just can't tell her.