I know people say this, a lot. But I’m not the person I ever thought I’d be. I always thought, I’d grow up to be a happy, social teenager. And here I am, at 2:38 am, desperately trying to cry. That’s the thing about me, I can’t cry.
I don’t know when this happened. It was probably thanks to the time my parents got in a fight on our front yard. Yes, it was a physical fight. After that, everything changed.
That wasn’t the first time they got in a fight, and I’m not completely sure if it’s the last time they’ll ever fight, but for the sake of my sanity, I hope they never fight again.
After that fight, I went numb. I stopped being myself. Writing was my outlet. It’s the only way I can be me. . .well I can be myself with him, but that’s a different topic for.
My mother changed too after that fight. Our relationship changed, she became distant, and angrier. She’d go off on me for anything. One day, it became too much for me.
***
I poured my heart out to her in the car, as we sat in there, at 9 pm. I still remember that night. The air felt crisp, and it was cold. I was wearing a black dress. A dress I wore for the first time, and probably for the last time.
I told her everything. How I couldn’t accept the feelings I had for a boy, because of my dad and her. She mocked me, and told me that I couldn’t blame her. She told me she tries changing her ways, and tries to be a better mother, but that I make it hard for her.
That was it. That infuriated me. I marched out of the car, and ran to my room to lock myself in.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She banged on the door, “Don’t lock the door!” she yelled at me with a heavy anger in her voice.
My fingers trembled. I needed an escape. “This isn’t right. It’s not right, I’m 16, I shouldn’t have to go through this. I don’t deserve what they put me through.
If I can’t lock myself in this room, I’ll lock myself in the bathroom.” I thought to myself anxiously.
I went into the restroom. And tried crying. Nothing. Nothing would come out. What was wrong with me? Why? Why couldn’t I cry?
I grabbed a towel and screamed my lungs out into it, I needed release. It wasn’t working. So I punched the bathroom wall, as hard as I could. Pain wouldn’t sear through my fist. I wasn’t feeling anything but anxiety and anger. I came apart on the ground, and rocked myself, trying to soothe my mind. Nothing was working. I wanted to run, run a million miles away from this damned house. I couldn’t, even if I could, I’m too much of a coward to go through with it.
So as I sat there on the ground, I opened the bathroom drawer. And the first thing I saw was a pair of hair cutting scissors.
I grabbed them. And sliced into my forearm, once. It didn’t hurt, why couldn’t I feel?
Twice. There it was, a warm feeling that I can’t remember anymore.
So I cut myself more.
Three times.
Four times.
Five times.
Six times.
Seven times.
Eight times.
Nine times.
Ten times.
I stopped myself. I wanted to cut deeper, but I knew what I was doing was horrible. I was hurting myself, and I wanted to keep going. But I didn’t.
At least not that night.
A few days later, I stop eating.
My depression had swallowed me up. I didn’t want to eat anymore, I really didn’t feel I deserved food.
A hatred for myself was boiling, and I was going to do everything I could to hurt the piece of crap I saw in the mirror every day.
Whenever I’d become angry, I’d scratch myself, tear my hair out, or hit myself.
I even became bulimic. Bulimia, some hold you have on me now don’t you?
It’s hard to get over it. Sometimes I still feel guilty after eating. I try ignoring those thoughts.
Sometimes my stomach is aching in pain, because of the food it craves. I try ignoring those feelings.
Not many know about my problems.
Just my boyfriend, who by some miracle still wants me, even after discovering everything I’ve been. . .
A self-harmer, and a bulimic calorie counting maniac.
My cousin knows about the cutting problem I had, she found out about the cutting by accident. We were both at the store, I reached up to grab something from a shelf, and my sleeve slipped down, she saw six pink cuts.
She told me she was disappointed in me. She said that out of the whole family, she looked up to me. She thought I had it all together, and that I was happy. That was just the mask I use, lately it’s been very hard to keep up the façade. I made her promise not to say a word.
She blames my mom for the way I am. I blame myself for being such a horrible person.
My two closest friends know about everything. And two other people, who one of my “closest” friends told. That shows me just how trustworthy some people are. It shows me it was a mistake opening up to her.
***
Well I don’t hurt myself anymore. At least not physically. I promised him I’d stop. I’ve broken too many promises to him, I’m going to keep that promise, for both of us.
I’ve realized, that as much as I dislike myself, I don’t deserve what I did to myself. I don’t deserve starving, or cutting, hair pulling, scratching, or hitting.
I deserve being happy. I know I once was a dove, beautiful, and free. Now I’m a caged crow. But each day I learn to sing a bit more. Each day I get closer to the exit. Each day I’m battling the dark inside my heart. But I want to fly with the flock of doves again. I know someday, I’ll see beautiful in the mirror again. Someday I’ll see the artist I once was, I’ll see the girl with pretty skin and pink lips, I’ll see me. And I'll learn that crows can be beautiful too.