One turned to two, two turned to three, and it kept going until I could no longer feel. I found numerous ways to hide my secret. Hoodies, thighs, bracelets, staying home. I did anything to be alone if it meant nobody would find out.
"I can't go, I have to clean," I'd say.
"Sorry. I fell asleep."
"My dad said no."
Lie after cut after lie, there was no way in suppressing it forever.
I knew that.
Cutting hurt like anything else, always sensitive the first time. My arm burned like someone spilled alcohol into an open gash and I thought I might have passed out, but I didn't. I deserve this, I thought. Then I blacked out
Next thing I know, there are ten indistinguishable cuts across my arm horizontally. I thought about adding more. I didn't. There was no way I was jeopardizing anybody finding out about my new relationship where I'm never alone.
The thing is, I kept thinking, I deserve this. But I didn't. I didn't deserve arguing parents, a mentally abusive dad, death threats, 'friends' who threw mulch at me, and someone who manipulated me.
School the next day was something else. Classes went by like a two hundred pound sloth until eleven-thirty and I hadn't even contemplated telling anyone. But my oversized black Peach's hoodie was getting hot, so I took it off, showing my black with yellow smiley faces bandana that was over the cuts. Except, that must have been a bad idea, because, not even five minutes later, my best friend, Mariah, came up to me.
"Lizzie? What's on your arm?" she asked curiously, staring at me with those big, sparkly, hazel puppy eyes.
"Uh. I did a thing, " I anxiously confessed. I could never lie to her, no matter how much I wanted to. I took the bandana off my arm, flinching, and showed her. She slapped my arm and I bit my tongue. It hurt.
She stared at me and said, "What did you do?!" It felt like everyone was looking at me, urging me to do it again.
"I cut, okay?" I muttered. I don't remember much after that.
Forward on a year from that experience, I'm in a mental health hospital. There, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, also known as Medical Depression. Turns out that you don't get it from the hospital, but from things like biology, traumatic events, abuse, ext. Funny, right? I think I was born with it, but it didn't become an issue until I was seven, when my dad would talk me out of things I enjoyed.
I started going to therapy after 6th grade. My therapist taught me coping mechanisms that I still use a year later go get over unimportant things.
But I could still feel myself slipping away. I still never left the house, had horrible outbreaks, and faked sick so I wouldn't have to deal with people.
Why can't I just be happy? I thought. Day after day and I was no longer there. Instead was the shell of a happy fourth-grader, who loved leaving the house and socializing, left with a pre-teen who laughed at morbid jokes and was a huge jerk when provoked.
"Just stop being sad," they'd say. I wish. But it doesn't work like that. Once you fall into the hole, there is no getting out. Sure, I went to therapy, I learned how to cope, but the monster grips like a mutant leech. I laugh and say I'm fine, but I'm not. I stare into space, thinking of everything and nothing.
Emilie's just pretending, she actually hates me, I thought. Then I'm pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of my teacher snapping. Shit. What was he saying? But I couldn't help it when I thought of my dad yelling, or how I was blamed for everything, even if it was just a joke. Those are the ones I never snapped out of. Not even when I tried to kill myself.
I took my old sleeping medicine, Trazadone, with chocolate milk like I was a lion that hadn't eaten in weeks. Soon, everything was blurry and I couldn't stand straight. I eventually vomited all over myself, so I was told to go to the bathroom. As I got up and stumbled across the room, absolutely everything was fuzzy, thoughts and the whole nine yards. Then I felt a pair of hands grab my shoulders and sit me down carefully. I look up and it's my favorite teacher. I was scared and frightened all at the same time.
Am I going to die? I didn't get to say goodbye, rang in my head as my teacher had everyone pack up and go to the main building.
All of a sudden, our nurse was to my right. She made me squeeze her finger and keep my eyes open. I blankly gazed at the wall, sleep sounding really nice, as the vomit in my stomach muttered false truths. It wanted to come back up, but I protested. Well, until I found myself up and staggering to the bathroom, that is.
I sank to the white tiled floor and threw up. I couldn't think, everything was replaced by the ringing in my ears. If I had known it would be like this, I would have never done it.
An ambulance soon arrived and asked me questions like did you take anything? and all I could respond with was a weak no. They got me on a stretcher and the ride wasn't any more calming. They stuck a damn needle in my arm and it hurt, not to mention I thought the sirens were on, which fueled my anxiety.
Everything was numb and I was overwhelmed. What's going to happen? Am I going to die? The only thing that I could feel was the cold medicine running through my veins. I could barely acknowledge the squeeze of the sphygmomanometer, a blood pressure monitor, every thirty minutes, or the heart rate monitor squeezing my finger gently. The beeping drove me insane and it smelled like sick people. Not soon enough, I was out.
Once I was in the small duplex I hate to call home, emotions flooded past the dam in my mind. There were so many people I would miss. Marissa, Emilie, Leyna, Jayden, my cat. I could have cut at that moment, but I didn't. I learned to deal with my problems without self-harm. I'm appreciative of everything people do for me. Generally, I'm just getting better. I know I'll never be my happy fourth-grade self again, but that's okay. I'm okay.
