Trigger Warning!

After I had started to fall back again (June/July 2013) It hurt worse, because now I knew what happiness was, what it felt like, and once again it was being taken away. So now I felt that even with more medicine, perhaps even different treatment, I may be happy for awhile, and I may feel normal, it won’t stay that way. And each time it will hurt worse. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. Because I (thought I) had depression, and a personality disorder, I never would be “normal”. I’ll always have to be on some medication, and I don’t want that.

I remember During my junior year in high school (April of 2012), I had been averaging 2-3 cuts a day, cutting regularly for a few months (I used to be able to count around 90 scars, with more completely faded) , and used up over 100 band aids in a month. Most of my cutting was done at school, since there was no one watching over me and I wouldn’t be disturbed. I could “get away with it” Depression hurt so much, that when I cut, the emotional anguish would become bearable. It was the only thing that got me through each day and kept me from trying to take my life daily. I managed to go six months without my parents finding out. But when they did, it was bad. My mom would check my body all the time. When she finally decided to check me again, I had about 30 visible scars on one thigh, and about 10 on the other. Some of them had faded out to where you couldn’t really see them anymore, but the ones that hadn’t, were a variety of purple, red, white, and raised scars. But cutting was the only thing that took the pain away for a little. Not long after that, I started cutting my stomach. I was running low on bandaids, so some of them didn’t even get that. I never bothered to wash any of them either. I had made two rows and started a third when my parents found out again. That’s when I was forced to stop because my parents were checking me almost every day.

That April, at the end of the month, I made another attempt at suicide. I don’t remember which number that was. I’d lost count. I went in the bathroom at school during lunch, and made the attempt. I had brought a rope, and when I got in there, I took the bag out of the trash can, and turned it upside down. I stood on it, and tied the rope to the bar across the window that had been painted over, near the top of the ceiling. I tied the other end around my neck, and stepped off the trash can. But I’m short, and was unable to tie it short enough. The rope stretched out under my weight, and my toes reached the floor. I stayed there for a few minutes. I didn’t feel anything happening. I was at an awkward angle since the bar was across the window which was set into the wall several inches. I had most of my weight on my neck, (it didn’t help that i was 95 pounds) but not that much on my feet. Apparently just enough so it wouldn’t work. I reached for the knot at the top. I couldn’t reach it. I reached for the one behind my neck, i couldn’t untie it. I panicked for a minute that i wouldn’t be able to get down and i would be stuck there until someone got the key and found me. Somehow I managed to wiggle back to the trash can. I managed to step back on it. I took it off. I was fortunate the trash can didn’t tip over. Otherwise I would have been stuck there for who knows how long. I felt so stupid for not being able to figure out how to make it work, jealous of all the people that did.

I waited in there for a bit because there was a red line around my neck. But the bell was about to ring for me to go back to class. I walked out the door with my chin to my chest hoping no one would see. I went to my Spanish teacher, Ms. Olsen. She asked me what was up. I told her. She was concerned. She asked what I used and I told her I had a rope. She told me to throw it away. Right there. There was a trash can in the hallway that she pointed to. I was scared. She wanted me to take the thing out of my backpack while everyone was walking to class. She stood in front of it told me to get behind her, and made me put it in there. I was scared she was going to take me to guidance, but she knew that all that would accomplish was them to call and tell my parents and then send me home. And I would go home to a worse situation with my mom literally watching my every move. She did make me promise I wouldn’t try anything else. I told her I wouldn’t; if it didn’t work the first time, why try it again, and besides, I didn’t even have the rope.

I week later my parents found out about my attempt. My dad didn’t understand why they hadn’t just put me out of the school by then. They wanted to pull me out of school and have me take the GED. It was hard to convince them. I desperately wanted to stay in school. That’s when I wrote that desperate letter that I wouldn’t cut, attempt suicide or tell people I wanted to die. If I did I wrote they could pull me out. That was a big mistake.