So it all started when I turned 16. Literally. Because before I turned 16 I was a naive girl who hated alcohol, weed, tattoos, piercings, I was just a shy little girl who did nothing... basically a fly on the wall to everyone.
(My throat seems to be swelling and my hands shaking as I begin to write this. So this could be harder than I expected it to be... yep. definitely going to be hard...)
I had a job the summer the summer I turned 16 but for some reason I could not work. On top of hating this job I just had so much anxiety to go everyday. I would cry every morning because I didn't want to go. I called in sick at least 3 out of 5 days of the week. I just couldn't handle it so I quit, and I didn't tell my family before hand because they would tell me I'm stupid. I had a month all to myself before school started again and I finally agreed to get a tattoo (by this time I wanted one, my mom always wanted me to get one but I always said ew, no, until this point)
I got the tattoo a week before school started (gr.11, my school goes up till gr. 12 if yours doesn't) and I also agreed to smoke weed. With my family... not a normal teenager with friends, no my mother and older sister. So I went back to school with a totally different feeling. I felt way more mature. But I don't know why but I couldn't handle normal day things anymore. I just couldn't. I wanted something to help me because I didn't have anything at all. I had nothing that was mine. When I look back on it, the main reason (on top of LOADS of other things) was the fact that I needed something all my own to make me feel better because I felt so empty. I didn't have drugs, or I would've done that, but I had nothing else. So I cut. (on the verge of crying...)
The first time was wimpy little scratches on my leg. I have always cut on my leg because I could hide it. But I never stopped after the first time. Every damn day there were new cuts on my leg. I started to write a journal, that I have read over and over again and I can tell you that within the first week I had counted 70 cuts on my leg. Once I made 30 cuts in one sitting.
*Now when I cut, I don't do it majorly deep. I'm more of a scratcher, as long as their is blood coming out its good. The only problem is, is that once I started I couldn't stop until there are so many cuts. One was never good enough. Five was not good enough.
From that point on my days consisted on going home and cutting and my day wasn't complete until I cut. After the first couple of weeks there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't cut. I wouldn't LET a day go by. I look back on it and realize that I was literally addicted. There was no cutting because I felt bad (of course there were days like that, but not everyday) I cut everyday because I was scared to let a day go by without cutting. SO SCARED. Who was I without it? I was no one. That was all I had!
So months progressed and it got really bad. I had no room on my legs, I cut my stomach but that produced nothing for me and eventually moved to my arms. And I was empty. So empty. I didn't make plans because I didn't think I had a future. Yes, I was so suicidal. I was planning my motherfucking suicide. I almost did on Halloween. I have ever since hated that day. And then I planned to do it during Christmas break. I was planning the letters to leave people, what I would say, who I would blame. Planning to slit my wrists. It was really bad.
By December I was a mess. I was taking way too many extra strength Tylenol all the time because I wanted to be close to dead. I didn't care anymore.
Now this is where it gets interesting...
One day I took extra strength Tylenol again but it was during school. So in my first period, the school nurse came to our class to do a little seminar on drugs and shit and I couldn't even concentrate, I couldn't sit still my mind was racing just as face as my blood. But she said something that I'll never forget, because it basically changed my life. She's like "most kids come to me because their depressed or something and I help them. Obviously if they were going to jump off a bridge I would have to tell somebody but other than that I am completely confidential". Right then and there I decided that after that class I would go to her and ask for help.
And I have no idea how I walked to the nurses office that day. I couldn't feel a thing, I don't know how I knew where to go or how to navigate the halls because my mind was literally blank. (I believe God had something to do with it, but you believe what you want)
When I got there I sat down nervous as hell. Literally! I'm like "ummm I really don't know what to do right now, or how to tell you, so maybe I'll just show you?" I pulled my sleeve up for what was about 2 seconds and shes like "your a cutter". My heart sank faster than she could get on the phone. She asked me a bunch of stupid questions and called the hospital to tell them that she was sending me there. (Yeah my heart was on fucking fire, I was thinking "what the hell! I didn't want to go to the hospital!! NO!!!") So she called a teacher that I used to love because she was so nice, she asked her to take me there and I went. I basically had no choice. My mind was blank and I just did whatever I was told.
When I got there I was into see one nurse and shes like what can I do for you? And I'm like ugh... I'm here cause I cut myself and I need to see something like a crisis nurse? and she told me she was glad I was getting help blah blah blah Tylenol will rot your liver blah blah blah, you could've overdosed. Then I saw a crisis nurse who was like, do you need to stay here over night? (in the motherfucking mental ward!) and I'm like no I definitely do NOT want to stay over night and they kept saying they don't want me to go home and hurt myself. I'm like hello I'm here because I want to stop I'm not going to go home and cut myself again. Then I saw the psychiatrist who hardly asked any questions and was like yep you have depression and anxiety, here are some safe pills come back in three months bye. (this is of course a really short explanation of all this, its already so long!!!)
So when I got home and told everyone, my mother was so disgusted, you could tell by the way she looked at me, my parents blamed music, books and everything but themselves. My sister said she was going to go through my room and take every sharp object out (which i totally objected because I didn't want her to find my journals) and I told everyone that I wanted this to be over please don't mention it again, I'm fine don't worry. And it was never mentioned again.
I'm going to stop here because this is super long and I don't want to bore you. Comment on this stuff so far and I'll post the rest tomorrow?