Journal

Then

It was my third year of high school that I started self harming. I found such an enormous relief in sinking the blade into my skin and watching the crimson blood pour out and drip down my arms. Legs. Stomach. Ribs. I was only 13 but I was already fucked up in the head.

I remember the first time I did it; I got home from yet another awful day at school to find that my latest report had been sent home and opened. I was a good kid, shy. I hardly spoke a word and I went bright red if a teacher asked me a question in class. And I was smart so everyone pressured me to get top grades in every single thing, which was impossible. I knew I hadn't done great in my exams, it was hard. I fought with myself just to get out of bed every single day and the only reason I did was to get out of the hell hole I was supposed to call my home. I couldn't study at home but if I was home late because I was at the library I wouldn't even be allowed in until the next day and it's hard to sleep never mind study on your doorstep in the freezing cold.

Nobody saw my "perfect" life for what it really was. Nobody saw that my picture perfect family was really a disaster. My mum drank too much and when she was drunk-which was pretty much everyday she would scream and swear and tell me all the things about myself that everyone else whispered behind my back. But somehow it was worse when she was sober, trying to cover up all our faults and make everyone believe there was nothing wrong. And everyone believed her. It felt like I was the only one who could see through her bullshit but that's not true. My dad and my brother saw it too but they knew well enough that it was in their best interest to keep their mouths shut. I was a bit different. I answered back, I would challenge her and call her bluff. She wasn't used to that so when I did, all hell broke loose. She would scream at me, tell me all the things she hated about me but I already knew. And she knew. She knew I was fucked up, depressed, and she did just about everything to cover it up. To cover what a failure I was. What a failure she was.

As soon as I got home that day, I knew I was in trouble, even more than usual. I slowly walked to the front room where I saw my mum sitting quietly, calmly. It was terrifying. I force myself to go to her. She doesn't say anything, just holds up my report. One A*, two A's, five B's and two C's. Fuck. Yes I know they're not awful but for me they were horrendous- the worst grades I had gotten so far. I am lost for words, I mean what can I say to make it better? Tell her the only reason I did so bad is because of her drinking problem? Because her and dad were always yelling at each other so I couldn't study? She stood up, mere centimetres away from my face. "Failure" she hissed, her spit hitting my face but I was careful not to react. Not to move a single muscle. "Well?" She prompts. I look down and stutter out some sort of apology but it wasn't one she wanted to hear. She shoved me backwards onto the floor, snarling insults at me but to my surprise she left me there and walked away. She didn't hurt me, just looked at me with disgust and went back to her bottle of vodka so I dragged myself up to my bedroom. My haven.

Nobody ever came in my room, I almost felt safe in here. What little I had was organised and clean and tidy. I led on my bed feeling numb thinking about my life. I thought about how I was unloved, my own family hated me, I had no friends. Nothing I ever did was good enough no matter how hard I tried. I was so tired, and it was not the kind of tired any amount of sleep could fix. I was tired of all this pain built up inside of me, tired of living, breathing. I had enough I just wanted it to stop. 

The more I led there, trapped inside my own head, the more violent my thoughts became. Escaping your own head is the very hardest thing you can do and it is impossible when it's the only thing you have. My mind is always so full no matter what I do I can't control the stormy ocean of thoughts raging in my head, drowning me. I couldn't control it. It's suffocating me and I can't escape. I reach for the blades for my razor and hold it in between my shaking fingers. Before I even understand why, I sink it into the flesh of my thigh then drag it to the side. I cry out in pain- if anybody hears they wouldn't care anyway. I watch the waterfall of blood drip down, slowly first, then faster. An uncontrollable river of blood pouring down. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt calm.

Nobody understood my life. Nobody saw it for anything other than the ideology presented to them. Nobody but one person other than me. Luke. He was my go to, my safe haven if you like. He was depressed and self harmed too but the thing was, he had a much worse life than me, self harmed more and worse than me. He made it into a competition without me even noticing it. He would ask me for pictures of my scars, tell me why I should cut. And I did. I started cutting more and deeper. Then he would tell me "you should really stop doing that." He got better, happier and he stopped cutting whilst I got worse and worse. I wanted to die. I was unbelivably and unfixably broken.

And when he was better he decided he didn't want me anymore. I had lied to him about loving him- I didn't but I thought I needed him and I knew he wouldn't even talk to me anymore if I told the truth so I told him I did love him and it was a mistake I regretted ever since.

One day, long after he had stopped replying to my messages, I started hearing rumours about myself in school and I had no clue where they came from until one day Luke messaged me, making fun of the rumours. He had made them up. He started to say that I was a slut, that he didn't want me anymore so I slept with his best friend James- which I didn't. He told me I was a freak, desperate for love but nobody could ever love me. He sent me messages constantly for days until I eventually blocked him.

Although I did get one thing from it-James. This was the beginning of our story together.