Self Destruction is Such a Pretty Little Thing

I Don't Want You To Cry, I Don't Even Want You To Care,

I Don't Want You To Cry, I Don't Even Want You To Care, Don't You Dare Pray For Me

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(This one is a little explicit, guys. Just warning you)

Ah.... the sweet smell of two hours of math every morning. Anyway, I didn't brave my temperamental net book to complain about the sudden addition of math to my school schedule. I am here because it has indeed come to my attention that I have neglected to tell you all what happened that night not so long ago. On Monday October 15th 2012. The night I attempted suicide.

Hell, I remember it like it happened last night. The day itself is hazy, I can't quite remember if there was something outlandishly horrible about it. I rode the bus home as per usual, did my chores like I always did. This was before my sister had moved back in with us so I was alone, so I was a little lonely, then again, I almost always was then. It was easy enough to convince myself that no one cared about me, especially since I was the main recipient of my father's anger in those days. It's not too difficult to convince one's self something that is true. When you're on the brink of falling all you need is a little push, a little reassurance of what you knew to be true. The thing that set me off was, in hindsight, tiny, so minuscule in fact, I refused to tell anyone what set me off that night. the straw that broke the camel's back was no larger than any other straw the camel was burdened with. It was, in fact, an excruciatingly snarky comment from my father saying how my room was filthy, even though I had literally just cleaned it earlier that very day. How ridiculous it sounds now. But in that moment all i could think was that I was just a toy to them. That i existed purely to be their puppet, to clean and to do as I was told, and never ever to disobey. I was through with it. i didn't want to be their puppet any longer. I wasn't being selfish, I was getting rid of my problems. I deserved to be happy and I couldn't be happy around them. So be it. I wasn't just thinking of myself, no. I figured since that they couldn't possibly love such a useless insolent creature, that I would be ridding my parents of their problems also. As much as I wanted to hate them, I couldn't, I can't. It was a win-win.

So, I walked in to my pretty purple bathroom and lifted the wicker basket off of the counter to reveal a white envelope made of ruled paper, one i made specifically for the purpose of concealing my little secret. Blades. Several of them. Some from pencil sharpeners and one, one from one of my fathers knives lying around, I don't know what they're called, the kind that have the little blades shaped like a fucking fuck I can't think of what it's called. Damn it, this is embarrassing, its shaped like pizza hut sign. Trapezoid?? i think so.a

Anyway, I picked my favorite one, the trapezoid, brilliantly shiny and wickedly sharp. beautiful. I took a deep breath and made the first cut, on my left wrist. i wasn't deep enough. I tried again and again. I only drew two or three long beautiful streams to drip on the floor from my elbow. Not enough to kill me though. I moved from my wrist to my elbow crease on my left arm, hoping to slash through the delicate flesh there, that barely masked my veins. It didn't work of course. I switched arms and slashed and slashed, destroying the previously untouched flesh. The deepest one the one i though would do the trick was there, it was deep enough to see my tendon. And I was overjoyed.

I heard my parents muttering in the living room, wondering if I was in the shower or something. i started to panic when they began to shout at me through the wall. I began to slash blindly. On my leg, on both my legs. I began to clean up the mess I had made on the floor, on my arms, on my clothes. I drew on my heavily depleted courage and called my mother to the bathroom, i figured there was nothing to lose, and change could mean everything, including my life.

She screamed, disgusted " What have you done to yourself" and I broke down again. She asked my father what she should do, if she should take me to the hospital.

"Yes, take her to the fucking hospital, there's obviously something wrong with her." I will never forget those words. They never considered that they were the cause and I never had the balls to correct them.

She took me to the hospital, crying all the way, complaining, and asking how she was supposed to go on. And I was disgusted.

The hospital was terrible. people stared, as I guess they always do in these kinds of situations. I was on a rolley bed in the hallway all night as they took blood and gave me a pill to help me sleep. i was a mess. Nothing could distract me, until a boy I knew was wheeled into the hallway I was in. He was there, not because he tried to kill himself but told someone that he wanted to. I don't know the whole story, we weren't that close. His name was Tyrique.

There were three of us in that lonely hospital hallway that night. i didn'r realize that we were being monitered, it's obvious now. I was transferred to a mental hospital that specialized in children and addiction the next morning. It was fine however. Not all while and scary like they say in books and movies. Well, except for the fact that there was a girl there who was admittadly homicidal.

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Don't Pray For Me- Asking Alexandria