These things take time...
It’s strange when visions and realizations come to you. Typically it’s the times you least expect them to come knocking upon your proverbial door. I was driving through the hills and back into the valley tonight when it hit me that it might actually be over. Similar to the roller coaster type roads I was taking at reckless speeds this evening, I realized, for once, without looking over the edge of those cliffs, that I might have come to an impasse.
I’m old enough now to be able to see myself clearly ten years ago. To some, fifteen was just another year of high school, but for me, it was the year I finally decided to live; not of course, without those bumps that throw you from your chair.
The end of it all started the summer after my freshman year of high school. My parents forbade me to see my best friend, and I felt that my world was over. Done. Add this to my parents collecting and throwing away both my music and my hand written notebooks of poetry, because they didn’t like the language that those notebooks contained nor the music I chose to listen to; there was no reason for me to keep breathing, as far as I could see it.
Some things, like time, are foggy, so forgive me if I get a bit mixed up; but sometime during my sophomore year I finally had the guts to give my world the middle finger, and slit my wrists open in the bathtub of the home I grew up in. I knew I was doing it right because our religion teacher had told us how to, mentioning that slipping your wrists under the warm water as you sliced them open would make the whole process less painful..
I was there. My skin pressed upon the cool porcelain; watching intently as the blood formed little cloudy streams against the grey of the water. About twenty minutes in, I decided; to do any real good, I’d have to cut deeper. As I moved to pull the razor from the edge of the tub, I heard the keys in the door. It was my father. He called for me, I told him I was in the tub, and I knew I couldn’t go any further. Not now anyway. I slipped the letters I’d written up the sleeve of my bathrobe, wrists till bleeding, and slipped into my room to wrap them up and try not to look like death warmed over.
He ate lunch, I sat, and felt terribly uncomfortable, and when he left I laid in bed and cried. I had spent much of the last weeks doing everything possible in order to stay home, to stay away from school. I didn’t know what my excuse would be for the next day; and I was desperate. So the next morning, as I tried to fake sick once again, my mom sitting at the edge of my bed; I exposed my wrists to her.
As most moms would she completely freaked out. Started asking me why, and all I could say is ‘I don’t know.’ She drove me to the doctor, where they made me promise to never hurt myself again. I said yes so they would leave me the hell alone. I was so angry. They bandaged up my wrists and I spent the next week at home with someone at my side constantly.
Most of that week it was my father. He went to a garage sale and purchased a dresser. We didn’t talk much. I don’t think he knew what to say. I certainly didn’t. So we worked on this dresser. Sanded and refinished it. I kept it for years, only getting rid of it now because the place I live in didn’t have room for it.
When the therapy started, this bible thumping list making woman whom my parents chose for me, it felt okay. It was good to be able to talk to someone. It wouldn’t be till years later, with a therapist I chose for myself, that I would feel comfortable telling her absolutely everything.
This is going quite deep. I’m realizing as I write this, that I’m craving a cigarette. This is not a good thing, as I’m trying to quit. Or rather, that’s the general idea. Which is strange because writing has always been therapeutic for me. Perhaps I’ll go have one. Or maybe I’ll just keep going.
Things got better with time; I changed schools, made new friends, and genuinely became a happier person; besides the few things. I spent the next few years cutting myself on a regular basis. Looking back at it now I think it was mostly checking to see if I still felt anything at all. The anti-depressants I was taking made me feel like zombie, which, in all truthfulness, made my depression worse. So I ended up somewhere between cutting and trying to overdose on my anti-depressants.
About halfway through my junior year, I met an brilliant English teacher who could tell how hungry I was to find some peace. She filled my world with book after book on creativity and spirituality. She gave me the power to find that first step towards living, and much of my life improved.
Many of my dear friends know this story. Many of them may not. But it is with these words that I write the truth, and thank all of them for their support, love, and kindness through all of my ups and downs. I simply wouldn’t be as clear headed and determined as I am tonight without them.
I’m old enough now to be able to see myself clearly ten years ago. To some, fifteen was just another year of high school, but for me, it was the year I finally decided to live; not of course, without those bumps that throw you from your chair.
The end of it all started the summer after my freshman year of high school. My parents forbade me to see my best friend, and I felt that my world was over. Done. Add this to my parents collecting and throwing away both my music and my hand written notebooks of poetry, because they didn’t like the language that those notebooks contained nor the music I chose to listen to; there was no reason for me to keep breathing, as far as I could see it.
Some things, like time, are foggy, so forgive me if I get a bit mixed up; but sometime during my sophomore year I finally had the guts to give my world the middle finger, and slit my wrists open in the bathtub of the home I grew up in. I knew I was doing it right because our religion teacher had told us how to, mentioning that slipping your wrists under the warm water as you sliced them open would make the whole process less painful..
I was there. My skin pressed upon the cool porcelain; watching intently as the blood formed little cloudy streams against the grey of the water. About twenty minutes in, I decided; to do any real good, I’d have to cut deeper. As I moved to pull the razor from the edge of the tub, I heard the keys in the door. It was my father. He called for me, I told him I was in the tub, and I knew I couldn’t go any further. Not now anyway. I slipped the letters I’d written up the sleeve of my bathrobe, wrists till bleeding, and slipped into my room to wrap them up and try not to look like death warmed over.
He ate lunch, I sat, and felt terribly uncomfortable, and when he left I laid in bed and cried. I had spent much of the last weeks doing everything possible in order to stay home, to stay away from school. I didn’t know what my excuse would be for the next day; and I was desperate. So the next morning, as I tried to fake sick once again, my mom sitting at the edge of my bed; I exposed my wrists to her.
As most moms would she completely freaked out. Started asking me why, and all I could say is ‘I don’t know.’ She drove me to the doctor, where they made me promise to never hurt myself again. I said yes so they would leave me the hell alone. I was so angry. They bandaged up my wrists and I spent the next week at home with someone at my side constantly.
Most of that week it was my father. He went to a garage sale and purchased a dresser. We didn’t talk much. I don’t think he knew what to say. I certainly didn’t. So we worked on this dresser. Sanded and refinished it. I kept it for years, only getting rid of it now because the place I live in didn’t have room for it.
When the therapy started, this bible thumping list making woman whom my parents chose for me, it felt okay. It was good to be able to talk to someone. It wouldn’t be till years later, with a therapist I chose for myself, that I would feel comfortable telling her absolutely everything.
This is going quite deep. I’m realizing as I write this, that I’m craving a cigarette. This is not a good thing, as I’m trying to quit. Or rather, that’s the general idea. Which is strange because writing has always been therapeutic for me. Perhaps I’ll go have one. Or maybe I’ll just keep going.
Things got better with time; I changed schools, made new friends, and genuinely became a happier person; besides the few things. I spent the next few years cutting myself on a regular basis. Looking back at it now I think it was mostly checking to see if I still felt anything at all. The anti-depressants I was taking made me feel like zombie, which, in all truthfulness, made my depression worse. So I ended up somewhere between cutting and trying to overdose on my anti-depressants.
About halfway through my junior year, I met an brilliant English teacher who could tell how hungry I was to find some peace. She filled my world with book after book on creativity and spirituality. She gave me the power to find that first step towards living, and much of my life improved.
Many of my dear friends know this story. Many of them may not. But it is with these words that I write the truth, and thank all of them for their support, love, and kindness through all of my ups and downs. I simply wouldn’t be as clear headed and determined as I am tonight without them.