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This is a story I began a while back. I've yet to decide whether I want to continue on with it. I know I need some help with my writing, see previous post. So read, and give me feedback. It would be GREATLY appreciated.
Some of he repition is meant, as it is in the mind of a teenage girl.
Prologue; Fear
"What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of me? Perhaps you don't know the answer to this question. Or possibly, you're merely living in fear of yourself?" The words were frightening, the tone - calming. The voice was so small. I felt I knew it. However, this voice belonged to a stranger.
"Fuck you!" Yes, so that voice I know. That anger, passion, adolescent use of grammar. That was mine and mine alone.
"So ignorant..." The voice paused, "so childish, so oblivious. You truly put me to shame. Angst filled with hate - with pain." My eyes were burning like fire at that point. And I pleaded for my tears to clear my bloody vision. "I know you're scared. I can see you wincing in your own pathetic weakness. I can see you cowered away in your invulnerable selfishness." The words stopped. My breathing stopped, I stopped.
Coldness enveloped me as my body trembled. I felt cold, so alone, but I'm not alone. I'm never alone, she’s always with me.
Once my tears finally washed away the crimson wall from my eyes I saw no one, nothing, black. "Fuck you!" I hissed, I repeated myself, I smiled. But I continued to cry. So I crawled on my knees, feeling as though something was pricking at my whole body. My breathing shaky, low, nerved by the silence, I mumbled, "Where'd you go?"
"Don't worry, I'm here, I'm always here." So tiny. Such soothing kindness, as if I need her to be here. I loathed it.
"Shut up!" I felt sick. I think I'm going insane. "Just shut up!" My mind was racing, my voice cracked. I slammed my head against the floor and threw my arms over my head. I couldn't see anything anyways. My vision was distorted by tears. Everything around me was shadowed in darkness. Nothing told me where I was, I could only smell blood and sweat. I could only feel tears and... Pain, acute, excruciating.
The stranger was laughing now. Hysterically. I dug my knees into me further; I squeezed my head underneath my arms. I sobbed, choked, inhaled dirt from the hard wood pressed against my lips.
"Do what you will to hide your fear. Do what you will to ward yourself of this ache. Do what you will to elude the sound of my voice from your ears. But don't hide from me. Don't attempt to lie to me. Don't hiss at me with malice dripping from your tongue. Invulnerability, weakness, pure selfish idiocy. It's dripping from your every pore. It's growing around you." Every word was so aluminum. Every word so chilling. I heard a sigh. "WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?" Hissing, screaming. Such a tiny glass shattering shrill. I squeezed the inner of my arms to my ears, I winced, released more sobs. I could barely breathe. So I chose to say no more.
The pounding in my head was causing a pulsing sensation through my whole body. I clenched my jaws together, wincing, inhaling deeply through my teeth. Water. Steaming. It pounded down on my whole body. Realizing then that my whole body was bare, cut, sliced, stabbed. I rolled over on my side, holding my arms over my head; I pulled my knees into my chest, pressing them harder against my naked breasts. Again, water. This time cold. Salt. I could taste the salt. I winced again, clenched my jaws again. But this time, I growled. "DAMN YOU!" Yet again, I sobbed. I felt as if I were dying, being eaten by tiny maggots. Having blood sucked from me by millions of mosquitoes. I felt needles stabbing my legs, arms, stomach, face. Everywhere. Agony. Hate. Anguish.
"But it must be done mustn't it?" She giggled. "To clean your body, to close the wounds. You wouldn’t want to get infected would you?"
Chapter 1; Back to the beginning
I shot up from my pillow, my wonderfully comfortable pillow. How I wish that I would never leave this bed, this safe hide away place to sleep my life away. But I couldn’t very well scream lying down. I screamed, hurting my own ears. Damn my body and its reflexes. But I was covered in sweat and I was excruciatingly hot. My tears were hurting my eyes. Yes, crying in my sleep. What an odd thing. I despise these bodily functions. These emotions swimming around inside of me, refusing more and more to stay calmed and lay low. It would be so much better that way, wouldn’t it? I asked myself this; What if people were to find out? Find out what... well, merely that I’m weak. They could break me, completely. I wouldn’t want to allow something like that to happen. But as of right now. My dreams wouldn’t allow me to hide away and sleep my life away. So I got out of bed, three-fourteen in the fucking morning. Goddamnit. My thinking must be so horribly adolescent. But I’m only sixteen. It is the twenty-first century after all. What do you expect from someone my age in this century? I looked down to the floor. Yes, clothing, wouldn’t want to step outside in my bra and panties now would I? I grabbed the same jeans I had worn for two days straight already. I threw on a shirt, and a nice warm hoody. “Where the hell are my shoes?” Talking to myself as always. I must be mentally handicapped. “Pfft, fuck it.” I left my room, walked through the den and the living room and opened the front door. “Ah, so you forget to lock it mom? And you yell at me for this catastrophe.” I smiled to myself, lit a cigarette and lay down in the middle of the yard. Wet, cold grass. It felt nice. I needed time to think, the quiet was helping. It’s nice to have a comfortable environment, but that only happens when I get a chance to be alone. I took a drag of my cigarette and smiled to myself looking up at the sky.
Life wasn’t as bad as I always made it seem, but I wouldn’t let anyone else know that, no. I just had to be pathetic and act all emotional and horrible all the time. Well, that’s how I used to be, getting depressed over such easy things, being so completely co-dependent on other people to keep me happy. Hah, I’m such a joke. If the person I am now were to meet me a few years back, I would seriously kick my own ass. Goodness, well, I’ve realized now that the shit life I had before was quite a few years back, and well, my life now isn’t as bad as it was then. So why do I bitch? Well, because I have reason to. Just because it’s not as bad doesn’t mean it great. School blows, and I get in trouble so easily. The youth of today annoys me so easily. It’s as if they have no emotions or sensitiveness to them. I mean, you know they do, everyone does. But why can’t they show they have an intellectual side? They aren’t “deep”. So many decisions need to be made. I feel like I’m not ready for this yet. Not even to have the responsibilities that I do now - not many might I add. But I know I am. I just have to really think about it. I hate growing old. Not that I’m old, but I will be one day. Of course, that is if society, or even myself, drive me into insanity. And these dreams definitely aren’t keeping that from happening anytime soon. I can really feel them, when I wake up, I can still feel what I feel in the dream. The pain, the anger, the hate. I can feel it all, I loathe it. I loathe the girl in the dream. But what makes it even worse is that the girl in my dreams isn’t just some random girl. She’s well, “…me”.
I've been having these dreams, these strange, frightening dreams, for almost a month now. They're waking me up at night, sending cold chills down my spine when I think back to them. I don't know what's wrong with me. I really think I'm going insane. They're so sick, twisted. Pain. They're filled with pain, and hate, and agony, and... Torture. Torturing me, being tortured by... well, myself, as a child.
I took a long, drag off my cigarette as my whole body slowly covered in chill bumps. I forced a smile, and bit my lip. What's wrong with me? Well, should I really be this worried about it? After all, they are just... dreams.
I pushed everything away from my thoughts and lay there smoking my cigarette in complete silence. I took in all my surroundings, attempted to count the stars. But there were so many, too many to ever count. Damn this universe for being too big, too big for my liking. There’s so much out there and I’ll never find it all, not even all that’s on this tiny little planet we’re on. Never all of it. I took one last drag of my cigarette, stood up and flicked it into the grass. Looking up at the sky one more time, I smiled. “I’ll see it all, one day.” After standing there for a moment, I went back in, locked the door behind me. Grabbing a soda from the fridge, I went back to my room, pressed play on my stereo and laid on my bed, sipping my soda, and listening to “The Postal Service”. Occasionally I would mumble a lyric to the song, moving my right foot along with the music. This is usually all I did at home, listen to music, fend off of soda pop. Get on the internet when I got the chance, but I usually got bored soon after. What I really loved was writing, in my journal, or, on anything really. Whether it’s about my day, my life, my emotions, it had to be written down in some form. It was, hah, my anti-drug.
Boredom, it's so powerful, filling my whole brain. Ah, how I hated it. I looked at the clock. "Ah, four-fifty." How times flies. No school today, Saturday. Score.
"Are you scared? I can see it in your eyes, the fear. It's so pure; I can smell your fear." She laughed a slight giggle of amusement. I felt I couldn't breathe. As if possible, she had taken my lungs from me and kept me alive to eternally suffocate but never drift away. The pain, I was coughing, I knew this because I could feel blood coming back up from my mouth. If it weren't for my blood and the coughing, I might actually believe she had stolen my lungs away. "Stop your nonsense. I know what you're thinking. I know your scared, but why? Tell me why. There’s really nothing to be afraid of."
"Please." How it hurt to speak. My throat was so scratchy. I don't know if I can endure this. Her words made me think, but I never knew why she was stabbing me with them. Why she shoved them down my throat like pills. Her voice made my whole body shake. She began to laugh, again, her laughing. But this time, hideously, evilly. I cringed. "Fuck you." the words came from in-between my clinched teeth. I despise her, I despise myself.
My vulnerability is what's weakening me. My fear, I suppose, is what's weakening me. Why won't she just kill me? I can feel the sliced flesh still bleeding. I can feel blood dripping down my legs and arms. I can't look. I won't look. It hurts to move. My ribs are stabbing my innards, as if they had been kicked, smashed, and crushed into me. Tears, yes, I can taste them. So many.
"You're pathetic. Merely nothing just filled with fear and vulnerability. Weak. It disgusts me to look at you. The mere image of you is grotesque. You won't even answer my questions, after all, you and you're weak, vulnerable, idiocy is what you make me become." I could hear her little sighs. I could feel her hands; they were soft, touching me. I almost didn't want her to stop, yet at that same moment, I wanted her to go ahead and kill me - rid me of this anguish that she, I, have done to myself.
"Goddamn you!" I screamed, I sobbed, I choked, again. I couldn't contain myself, sadness, pain, hate, anger. All of this was growing so great inside of me I felt I would explode into tiny pieces of it all. Sand paper. It seems that is what she used. She continued. I screamed. "Stop!" I choked another cough. Blood. She was ripping at my wounds. I could feel the layers of skin peeling away.
"Wake up!" Who was this? She was screaming, crying. "WAKE UP!" I could feel it like a blow to the face.
I shot up instantly. I could still feel the pain. I didn't pay any attention to anything around me. I screamed. Tears, in my sleep again. Someone grabbed me. "Get away! Don't touch me!" I panicked and fell off my bed into the floor. My legs, arms, stomach. Pain. I can still feel it. My vision was so blurry. I burst into more tears. That person, grabbing at me. "Stop!" I felt I couldn't breathe. "Stop!" I repeated myself. I'm dying. "I'm dying." I mumbled. I felt the death growing in me.
"You're not dying now let me hold you. Please!" They wrapped their arms around me. I winced. “CELESTE!” The tone, the sound of her saying my name. It was then that I felt warmth in their arms. I recognized the voice again. I recognized the smell, the touch. My nerves became calm and I quieted my sobs.
"Mom, I love you, mommy. I love you. Don't let her do this to me anymore. Don't let me fall asleep. Please, mommy." I was babbling. I began pleading with her. She merely held me, quieted me, kissed me, rocked me as if I were small child.
After my mom walking in and finding me that way, I had been going to a psychiatrist for about a month now. I hated it. I could never explain the dreams to her, how they happened. I could never find the words to use to explain the pain I felt. I could never. I knew the dreams. I remembered them as if I had lived them. But I could never truly tell her, open up to her. If only I could find a way to let her dream them too, but why would I want someone to feel the same pain that I felt. Go through that torture, that anguish. Be enveloped by so many emotions all at once. Pain, sadness, anger, hate, anguish, agony, worthlessness, disappointment, the list could go on forever. I could only tell her how the dreams made me feel, that it was as if I had truly lived them. My explanations were always simple and easy, never truly filled with depth or reason. I was perpetually confused.
My life soon after became a whirlwind of paranoia and depression. I was unceasingly discontent. Consistently changing positions in my seat merely to keep myself awake. I became an insomniac of sorts. My sleep was very limited, two to three hours each night. Every hour filled with tribulation. Each night waking myself the same way, crying in my sleep, screaming, being startled to the point my body begins to twitch rapidly.
Its summer now, I’ve been staying home more often. My mom doesn’t believe it to be safe for me to stay the night with a friend, or even family member. I’ve been visiting my dad often; he’s oblivious to my night terrors still. At the moment, I’m sitting in front of the computer, attempting to type something logical, something that’s not filled with nonsense. But my attempt has failed terribly, more than once in the past week. I think I’m just going to leave this petty attempt alone for now. It tires me to think so hard on something that once came to me so easily. I need to get away from this place, this blank computer screen. I need to see someone. I need to see Odelisse. Ah, Odelisse. The name fills me with joy simultaneously.
I walked to my mom's room. I wanted to just yell her name, have her come to me. But I felt it would be better to go to her. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
I’m so tired of being around this place, of seeing the same thing everyday, so I need to at least try. “Do you think I could stay the night with Odelisse tonight, please?” My question seemed only a question. But it was really, to me, a need. I needed to get out, to sleep in a different bed, to rid myself of the same objects I saw everyday of the week. Odelisse was the only friend I truly had, but she was more than just a friend to me, she was a love, a need. She was the core of my heart, the reason of my being. She was everything; she helped me just by speaking to me, being with me, holding me. This question was more than a question, it was a need.
“No, you need to stay home, you shouldn’t be going anywhere. It’s -“
“Mom, please, I need to. You have no idea how tired I am, not because of lack of sleep, but I’m tired of this place, I’m tired of the same thing surrounding me everyday, I’m tired mom, I’m just tired. I need to see her. Please mom?” I was vehement when I cut her off, but my anger didn’t show. I was simply pleading to leave. Pleading to be released. Yearning for her answer to change.
“Why? Why do you feel this way?" She asked me, I knew she really needed to know, I knew I should answer this question. But she just continued, ruined the chances of me answering. "My answer is no, and you’ll thank me when you’re older and you have kids of your own.” Such a mom answer.
I didn’t answer her question. I walked away, I felt yelling wasn’t the right way to go, and if I had stayed in the room yelling would have been exactly what I would resort to. So I went back to my room. I cried, small tears. Not like the way I cried in my dreams or the way I cried when I woke from my dreams. I just cried, quietly. I cried out of anger, of loneliness, of sadness.
I was pushing myself to the border. Trying to think of when I should stop it all and try to take steps back, but it was difficult to just stop. I couldn’t control these emotions inside me, no matter how many times Phacia, my psychiatrist, told me I could. I couldn’t control my dreams. And I certainly couldn’t control my mother or anyone else around me. Something in me wanted to turn back around, give it another shot, say, ‘So can she come here?’ But I knew the answer to that would be no as well. My mom was in fear of anyone finding out about my dreams, my paranoia, my depression. Of course, I had already told Odelisse all of it, she knew more than my mom knew, more than Phacia knew. The only reason for that is because the words aren’t forced out of me when told to her. They’re more willing. Not because of whom she is, but because they don’t get mixed up when I’m trying to explain them to her.
I decided to call her. I needed someone to talk to right now and I don't feel I could talk to my mom right now. It's not that she wouldn't understand, I'm sure she would understand, it's just that I don't want my mom to find out...
"May I speak to Odelisse please?"
"Sure, hold on one second?"
A few seconds later, the urge I'd been having growing stronger, I heard her voice. "Hello?" The urge was gone immediately.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Oh, Celeste, hey ! Not much really, just sitting around being bored. I was thinking about you right when you called." That brought a smile to my face, my heart jumped. I was happy once again.
"Really? How odd. Haha, well, I was thinking about you too. Then again if I weren't why would I have called?" I had a loss of words at times when talking to her. Not that it was uncomfortable, no, she's known me for years now. She's all I have, the most important person in my life.
She laughed. "I don't know, why would you?"
"I asked my mom if I could come see you today."
"Really? What did she say? No, again?"
"Of course. She's so afraid of people finding out about my dreams and all, but my paranoia is getting worse. I'm sure people don't notice when I jump out of my skin if they walk up behind me." Sarcasm was dripping from my voice.
"Oh yeah, I'm sure they don't. Well, I just hope things get better. I wouldn't want you getting into that horrible habit of yours again. I hated that, it hurts, you hurting yourself kills me. I mean, I know it hurts you, but it's so much worse knowing you've done that or are doing it, it kills me."
Yes, I know, she knew everything except that. I don't want her to have to go through pain too, just because of my idiocy. "Yeah, you don't have to worry, I mean, why would I start that again? It really did nothing for me, and more importantly I know how much it hurts you. I would never want to hurt you." It was true, I would never want to hurt her. But it was my way of coping, it was my release. She can't know.
"I know, I'm just worried about you, that's all. Well, listen, I've got a lot to do right now. My mom and I are cleaning and she says I need to go." My joy was shot down again, I felt alone when I didn't have her presence or voice to keep me company. "I love you, and I'll call you later, okay?"
"Sure, no problem, I love you too."
"Bye, hun."
"Bye." She was gone, again. I needed her back instantly. I felt the need to redial the number right after I had hung up. Right after I had heard the beeping from the phone. But I held back that urge. I just... did what I had to do.
Chapter 2; Digging deeper now
“So I understand you’ve had quite a past with self mutilation?” She glared intently into my eyes, though I knew she didn’t veritably care. After all, she is only doing her job; digging deep into my life, attempting to, so rudely, conclude my problems. They always believe there is a definite answer, always logical.
I smiled faintly, “Yes.” nodding along with my words.
“Have you,” she approached this steadily, though I knew the question already, “thought about hurting yourself again, or even began to do so, since you’ve been having these dreams of yours?”
These dreams of mine? I didn’t like the term, but I listened contently. Pondering the question, I looked away from her. I was indecisive, should I answer honestly? I looked back up, trying to avoid eye contact.
“No. Of course the thought would be in my head every once in while, my being a previous self-mutilator and all. It was of course my way of coping, and I could use a nice, easy way to cope right now. But I know that it had never truly helped me cope in any sense, I just continued to allow myself to believe that it was the only way.” Satisfied with my answer, I left her with that.
I saw her nod; write something down on her large yellow notepad.
“Well, it’s 4 ‘o clock. Time is up for this afternoon, and I suppose I’ll be seeing you next week, Celeste.” She stood and opened the door for me.
I smiled to her. “Have a good day.”
I hated being in this bland place, but I had to wait for my mom to pay the lovely forty dollars an hour; money wasted on something meaningless. I waited in the car.
I guess Phacia decided to talk to my mom about something. I just wonder what they’re talking about, me of course. Hopefully nothing meaning I have to keep coming here more, the tiny rooms and paint smell nauseates me. The temperature of the building itself is unnerving.
“Celeste,” My mom, I suppose I must have zoned out. “Phacia has decided it would be best to put you on medication.”
I couldn’t find the right words to say. I’ve had many friends that have been subscribed to medications. I know it has never really helped them any at all. I, myself, never imagined my mother would agree to something like this.
“Lexapro.” I suppose that’s the drug.
“What, exactly, is it for?” I was in total shock.
“Manic depression.”
“Mom? Do you really believe that I’m depressed?” I couldn’t comprehend what was actually going on.
“Well, she’s decided to begin with just this one drug, you know, to see how things go.”
Well, I guess now I’ll be taking little pill tablets every day for the rest of my depressing, insane little life. This is just ludicrous; I honestly don’t know how to react to this. My mom is going to get my subscriptions tomorrow afternoon. Oh joy, I can’t wait. I’ll be anticipating this all night, no sleep for me, again.
I can feel it again, rising. That urge. I despise this. Well, I suppose I may just go straight home and take a long warm bath, slit my wrists while I’m in there. Well, never mind, then they might honestly believe I was a crazed mind. I'm sure they don't need something like a suicide to support their suspisions.
Ah, my little release.
I can't exactly tell anyone how I got caught up in all of it, or what it was that provoked me. I can't exactly explain why I feel it helps, or even why I've done it for so long, or why I continue to run back to it over and over again. But...
Life to me has always been a sort of game. Something I could just toy with, toy with others, toy with myself. But I was always so serious, so disgustingly depressed, and sorrowful. Wallowing in my own pity I grew to detest myself and feel nothing but malice for the inner of me. Resulting in that which I could never turn back, I grew cold. And realizing then that life wasn't but a game, wasn't something I could restart in the place I left off, or start completely anew. I realized I fucked up; I was destroying the only life I could and would lead with my ignorance. So I went on, always distracted, always feeling loneliness, and insecurity. Always feeling broken and incomplete. I was ready to grow up. And in my mind I was somewhat of a very ignorant adult. Unaware of the truth in the world that soon stabbed my gut, and smacked my cheeks with cold hands. I turned my back on all that was left of me. I was eager to find myself and know all of me, but I was much too young to do so. It was all much too soon. Not to say that I was shallow, not to say that I was completely ignorant to my surroundings. But it was there. And my depression grew on me, and became numb to me. Though through all my hating it I wanted it back once the emptiness sunk in. I wanted nothing but to feel again, to feel anything. Sorrow if it be, if it were all for me to feel. I wanted it, I longed for the touch of emotion. But it never came. For years it stayed away, and I, but a child looking for an easy escape, picked up a wonderful habit. A habit so I would call it. A disorder others may call it. But the only thing it really could be called is, a release.
Ah, the escapist and their escape.
Everyday I needed it, everyday I couldn't function without it. Even if it be only once. And some people have chosen that path too, but for all the wrong reasons the people around me chose to follow. They were eager for attention, eager to be considered depressed, eager to be different, to have a sort of disability. They were eager for what they themselves could truly not handle. So I sneered at them, I was even more sickened by their pathetic reasonings than I was by my own weakness. Yet I continued my escape, my door, my window, I continued to slice, to stab, whatever form it may be, but always with my blade.
Never would I be without my best friend, so I considered it to be, before anyone around me. That was my only true friend, it was like it could understand what I needed, and so it chose to give me that which I was seeking. I was seeking something, but I was too ignorant to know what it was. All I knew was, I wanted to have that stinging coldness touch me, to dig into me, to fill me and drain me. That is what it did for me, right? It did fill me with the love I needed as it kissed me with its cold metal. It kissed my arms, my thighs, my hips. It kissed my hands, my stomach, I wanted for it to kiss my face. And as it kissed me it stole things away. And I allowed this to happen, merely because it was what I thought I needed. It stole those images, my horrid memories; it stole the ache that I no longer felt. It stole the tears that only stayed inside of me. And it took my screams and drained all of me. That blade, my gorgeous shining blade. How I loved it to the fullest. And at the time it was all I really loved. Not the man that was there in my life. No, did I ever really love him? For almost two years it seemed as though I did. But he wasn't there to stay, not like my friend, the kind of friend that never leaves. Oh how it always let me choose the fun of the night. If it were to have eyes and a mind, I would be the one to choose the movie. It gave me the control that I needed, as my ignorance gave me no control of my life.
So I hung onto it like one would hang on to their deafening heartbeat before they die. I didn't wish death upon me, I wished feeling, emotion, I wished release. I was given my wishes every night and morning. How I loathed it, those wishes, that control, oh, it sickened me. But beyond that loathing was a love never to be broken. No one could've given me that which my blade bestowed upon me. No one could've broken my walls down long enough to even try. So as I was surrounded by those pretending to love me, and those who truly did, my eyes and heart deceived me. As I thought that no one, not even those of my family cared for me even the slightest. I begged for a new blade each night. A new friend as the first got old and rusted with blood. But it was more than my blood that covered my many, many friends. It was all the inner of me that I detested. It was all of my screams that never came out. It was all of my tears that never rained upon my cheeks. It was all of my memories that have never TRULY left me. It was all of those little things that brought nothing, but a sense of disgust and sadness upon me. So I had many of those little friends. Many of those who allowed me the control in the relationship. And I had many that I held on to, never thrown away. Because like those things I couldn't let go of, I had memories with them too. And so I continued to hold on to the physical crimson colored inner of me, though the beauty faded as the inner dried and died. And it became brown. And that was all that I saw. Because the brown told me that the released evil inside me was dead and no longer contained its beautiful life that I longed to feel as if I had - though I knew I did. But that truth wasn't clear to my eyes, and it was hazy to even see inside of me, much less for others to try and peak. And so I began to let them in, those who I thought never cared, and even those who I knew truly didn't. As I wanted to let go of it all in a form of words more than just that physical matter. And so I laid all of me down in front of strangers and loved ones. To let them hold carry the weight on their shoulders too. And it lightened my load, but never really helped. And I soon began to rid myself of the older blades, as the sight and even smell sickened me completely. But they grew and became stronger with my hands to lead the way. And they were always there for me. Like a mother for her child. They never moved until I helped them to. They never abandoned me like other friends chose to. They never grew tired of my company or began to detest me. They were surrounding me, and I believed more that they would help, if only I could have more time with them, if only I could receive more kisses. And so they kissed me, as I asked. And I asked them in the morning, I asked them after school, I asked them in the shower, and before I laid my head to sleep. And they always did as I asked. They waited on me, hand and foot.
My life was heading downward, I knew this. But I lost all care. And so I spiraled. I fell down in circles, and once I hit the ground, I broke all bones, and I couldn't move, I didn't dare try. So I felt abandoned, or more so knew I was. As my friends continued to do as I pleaded them to, their kisses subsided in emotion. The feeling of them grew to nothing. And so I became numb to my beautiful blades as well. And I knew then, it was time to say goodbye to them. But I never really said goodbye. I always kept them, hid them in dark places - corners and drawers. I hid them away from me. I was angry, I felt again, but I was angry with my friends. Because they let me down, and so the loathing of them grew greater, but I still felt the need for their company. And I took them from their hiding places each night before the lights went out. And we played in a way we never played before. We played together, and drew on each other. Well more so, I let them draw on me. We drew stars, hearts, and pretty little words. We played like children. And we never, still, grew tired of one other. But we never shared kisses like we did before, and I knew I missed it, but I tried not to care. And so I went on without their love, and our relationship grew to be like children on a playground. I no longer cried for them, and they no longer needed me to. It was just the time together that I loved, but after we were finished playing I always put them back, back in the corners and drawers; to hide them from me, and then I would cry, so that they couldn't see. And I cried because of the loss of passion with them. The loss of their wonderful kisses. I cried alone from then on. And I knew that they wouldn't help, I knew they never did, but that’s not what I told myself.
And that was the only romance I had ever shared. Well, at least shared to its fullest. I shared it with commitment, with care. I shared my love with them. I shared my secrets; they knew me. They knew the inner of me like no one had ever known before. Not even those I felt I truly loved. They led me on, and I loved them, but they never knew all of my love or any of my innards. They never knew, and no one knew, no one but those little friends of mine. And after our infatuation died and we began to be like children in the schoolyard. They knew, but I shut them out. I hid them from me, and that is how it was for the longest time. And we would play, though I only let out my emotions when I was alone. Then and only then did I show that I had all this love to give and no one to give it to. Then and only then did I show my tears and sorrow. Then and only then did I let free my pity in myself. No one has felt the love I have- until, well, until Odelisse. There were others before. But they aren't the same. She doesn't toy with me. She doesn't throw me like a rag doll or lead me on to think one thing and then another. She's beautiful. More beautiful than any blade I ever touched, and her kisses are more healing than any kiss my friends gave me.
And Odelisse was the one person that helped me to end my razorblade romance, my bloody kisses. My days of pain were over.
Well, at least that’s what I had thought. Ever since these dreams had begun, I started back. I made myself more little friends, and they loved me again. I know, Odelisse helped, she truly did, but now that my mother has deprived me of seeing her, or anyone else at that, I haven’t known exactly what to do, what to resort to. I need something, do I not?
So, to answer the question Phacia had asked earlier, yes, I have. But I couldn't have told her that, she already feels the need to put me on anti-depressants. Lexapro. The name sounds so farmiliar. I wonder if I knew anyone before who has taken that, or if I had just heard about it, maybe commercials. But I've recently stopped watching television altogether. I find no joy or entertainment while staring at that bright screen.
So I've begun a bad habit, once again. It's like smoking, so hard to stop. I've never truly quit. I know, I've said many times, told many people, that I know it has never helped me the way I made myself believe. I know it doesn't, I don't just say that to make people think I've grown more mature, or even that I know how wrong it was. Not that I don't know, but I have found that it seems to be the best way I have of coping, whether or not it be the best option. It's all I've been given, and I've taken it into me.
I haven't done much in the past few hours. I took a long shower, it's almost midnight now. I should probably try to get some sleep, but I don't feel the need to. Mainly because I'm not so tired, but I'm afraid of having another dream. I know that what I do to myself outside of these dreams is bad enough, and they're the primary cause of my mutilation. I don't need them over powering anymore than they already are. I don't need more of a reason to take things out on myself. Though I know this isn't particularly my fault, I feel in some sense that it is. I guess because I know that the things my child form is syaing to me in the dreams is somewhat true. I am afraid, I am vulnerable, and weak. I don't know what I'm afraid of, but I know that I am. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm afraid to reveal my true self to anyone, afraid to show forth the weakness inside of me, let people realize how emotional and sensitive I truly am. But if I knew the answer I'd surely tell this little bitch. I'd rather reveal my fears than go through what she's put me through.
I know what I'm partially afraid of, despite people finding out that I'm probably the most sensitive person alive, I cower in the thought of loneliness, perhaps that is one of the reasons for my hurting myself, me feeling so alone all the time, but I suppose that isn't such a good reason. I honestly don't know. What do I know? Fuck it. I'm so oblivious to even myself.
Well, I'm glad I'm not so tired tonight. My mom didn't go into work, I don't want her waking up along with me, while I scream my little lungs out. It was just my luck to fall asleep and her coming home to find me that way. If only I could have managed to wake up screaming before she got home, or maybe even have been able to keep myself awake. But I've never been so blessed.
Some of he repition is meant, as it is in the mind of a teenage girl.
Prologue; Fear
"What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of me? Perhaps you don't know the answer to this question. Or possibly, you're merely living in fear of yourself?" The words were frightening, the tone - calming. The voice was so small. I felt I knew it. However, this voice belonged to a stranger.
"Fuck you!" Yes, so that voice I know. That anger, passion, adolescent use of grammar. That was mine and mine alone.
"So ignorant..." The voice paused, "so childish, so oblivious. You truly put me to shame. Angst filled with hate - with pain." My eyes were burning like fire at that point. And I pleaded for my tears to clear my bloody vision. "I know you're scared. I can see you wincing in your own pathetic weakness. I can see you cowered away in your invulnerable selfishness." The words stopped. My breathing stopped, I stopped.
Coldness enveloped me as my body trembled. I felt cold, so alone, but I'm not alone. I'm never alone, she’s always with me.
Once my tears finally washed away the crimson wall from my eyes I saw no one, nothing, black. "Fuck you!" I hissed, I repeated myself, I smiled. But I continued to cry. So I crawled on my knees, feeling as though something was pricking at my whole body. My breathing shaky, low, nerved by the silence, I mumbled, "Where'd you go?"
"Don't worry, I'm here, I'm always here." So tiny. Such soothing kindness, as if I need her to be here. I loathed it.
"Shut up!" I felt sick. I think I'm going insane. "Just shut up!" My mind was racing, my voice cracked. I slammed my head against the floor and threw my arms over my head. I couldn't see anything anyways. My vision was distorted by tears. Everything around me was shadowed in darkness. Nothing told me where I was, I could only smell blood and sweat. I could only feel tears and... Pain, acute, excruciating.
The stranger was laughing now. Hysterically. I dug my knees into me further; I squeezed my head underneath my arms. I sobbed, choked, inhaled dirt from the hard wood pressed against my lips.
"Do what you will to hide your fear. Do what you will to ward yourself of this ache. Do what you will to elude the sound of my voice from your ears. But don't hide from me. Don't attempt to lie to me. Don't hiss at me with malice dripping from your tongue. Invulnerability, weakness, pure selfish idiocy. It's dripping from your every pore. It's growing around you." Every word was so aluminum. Every word so chilling. I heard a sigh. "WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?" Hissing, screaming. Such a tiny glass shattering shrill. I squeezed the inner of my arms to my ears, I winced, released more sobs. I could barely breathe. So I chose to say no more.
The pounding in my head was causing a pulsing sensation through my whole body. I clenched my jaws together, wincing, inhaling deeply through my teeth. Water. Steaming. It pounded down on my whole body. Realizing then that my whole body was bare, cut, sliced, stabbed. I rolled over on my side, holding my arms over my head; I pulled my knees into my chest, pressing them harder against my naked breasts. Again, water. This time cold. Salt. I could taste the salt. I winced again, clenched my jaws again. But this time, I growled. "DAMN YOU!" Yet again, I sobbed. I felt as if I were dying, being eaten by tiny maggots. Having blood sucked from me by millions of mosquitoes. I felt needles stabbing my legs, arms, stomach, face. Everywhere. Agony. Hate. Anguish.
"But it must be done mustn't it?" She giggled. "To clean your body, to close the wounds. You wouldn’t want to get infected would you?"
Chapter 1; Back to the beginning
I shot up from my pillow, my wonderfully comfortable pillow. How I wish that I would never leave this bed, this safe hide away place to sleep my life away. But I couldn’t very well scream lying down. I screamed, hurting my own ears. Damn my body and its reflexes. But I was covered in sweat and I was excruciatingly hot. My tears were hurting my eyes. Yes, crying in my sleep. What an odd thing. I despise these bodily functions. These emotions swimming around inside of me, refusing more and more to stay calmed and lay low. It would be so much better that way, wouldn’t it? I asked myself this; What if people were to find out? Find out what... well, merely that I’m weak. They could break me, completely. I wouldn’t want to allow something like that to happen. But as of right now. My dreams wouldn’t allow me to hide away and sleep my life away. So I got out of bed, three-fourteen in the fucking morning. Goddamnit. My thinking must be so horribly adolescent. But I’m only sixteen. It is the twenty-first century after all. What do you expect from someone my age in this century? I looked down to the floor. Yes, clothing, wouldn’t want to step outside in my bra and panties now would I? I grabbed the same jeans I had worn for two days straight already. I threw on a shirt, and a nice warm hoody. “Where the hell are my shoes?” Talking to myself as always. I must be mentally handicapped. “Pfft, fuck it.” I left my room, walked through the den and the living room and opened the front door. “Ah, so you forget to lock it mom? And you yell at me for this catastrophe.” I smiled to myself, lit a cigarette and lay down in the middle of the yard. Wet, cold grass. It felt nice. I needed time to think, the quiet was helping. It’s nice to have a comfortable environment, but that only happens when I get a chance to be alone. I took a drag of my cigarette and smiled to myself looking up at the sky.
Life wasn’t as bad as I always made it seem, but I wouldn’t let anyone else know that, no. I just had to be pathetic and act all emotional and horrible all the time. Well, that’s how I used to be, getting depressed over such easy things, being so completely co-dependent on other people to keep me happy. Hah, I’m such a joke. If the person I am now were to meet me a few years back, I would seriously kick my own ass. Goodness, well, I’ve realized now that the shit life I had before was quite a few years back, and well, my life now isn’t as bad as it was then. So why do I bitch? Well, because I have reason to. Just because it’s not as bad doesn’t mean it great. School blows, and I get in trouble so easily. The youth of today annoys me so easily. It’s as if they have no emotions or sensitiveness to them. I mean, you know they do, everyone does. But why can’t they show they have an intellectual side? They aren’t “deep”. So many decisions need to be made. I feel like I’m not ready for this yet. Not even to have the responsibilities that I do now - not many might I add. But I know I am. I just have to really think about it. I hate growing old. Not that I’m old, but I will be one day. Of course, that is if society, or even myself, drive me into insanity. And these dreams definitely aren’t keeping that from happening anytime soon. I can really feel them, when I wake up, I can still feel what I feel in the dream. The pain, the anger, the hate. I can feel it all, I loathe it. I loathe the girl in the dream. But what makes it even worse is that the girl in my dreams isn’t just some random girl. She’s well, “…me”.
I've been having these dreams, these strange, frightening dreams, for almost a month now. They're waking me up at night, sending cold chills down my spine when I think back to them. I don't know what's wrong with me. I really think I'm going insane. They're so sick, twisted. Pain. They're filled with pain, and hate, and agony, and... Torture. Torturing me, being tortured by... well, myself, as a child.
I took a long, drag off my cigarette as my whole body slowly covered in chill bumps. I forced a smile, and bit my lip. What's wrong with me? Well, should I really be this worried about it? After all, they are just... dreams.
I pushed everything away from my thoughts and lay there smoking my cigarette in complete silence. I took in all my surroundings, attempted to count the stars. But there were so many, too many to ever count. Damn this universe for being too big, too big for my liking. There’s so much out there and I’ll never find it all, not even all that’s on this tiny little planet we’re on. Never all of it. I took one last drag of my cigarette, stood up and flicked it into the grass. Looking up at the sky one more time, I smiled. “I’ll see it all, one day.” After standing there for a moment, I went back in, locked the door behind me. Grabbing a soda from the fridge, I went back to my room, pressed play on my stereo and laid on my bed, sipping my soda, and listening to “The Postal Service”. Occasionally I would mumble a lyric to the song, moving my right foot along with the music. This is usually all I did at home, listen to music, fend off of soda pop. Get on the internet when I got the chance, but I usually got bored soon after. What I really loved was writing, in my journal, or, on anything really. Whether it’s about my day, my life, my emotions, it had to be written down in some form. It was, hah, my anti-drug.
Boredom, it's so powerful, filling my whole brain. Ah, how I hated it. I looked at the clock. "Ah, four-fifty." How times flies. No school today, Saturday. Score.
"Are you scared? I can see it in your eyes, the fear. It's so pure; I can smell your fear." She laughed a slight giggle of amusement. I felt I couldn't breathe. As if possible, she had taken my lungs from me and kept me alive to eternally suffocate but never drift away. The pain, I was coughing, I knew this because I could feel blood coming back up from my mouth. If it weren't for my blood and the coughing, I might actually believe she had stolen my lungs away. "Stop your nonsense. I know what you're thinking. I know your scared, but why? Tell me why. There’s really nothing to be afraid of."
"Please." How it hurt to speak. My throat was so scratchy. I don't know if I can endure this. Her words made me think, but I never knew why she was stabbing me with them. Why she shoved them down my throat like pills. Her voice made my whole body shake. She began to laugh, again, her laughing. But this time, hideously, evilly. I cringed. "Fuck you." the words came from in-between my clinched teeth. I despise her, I despise myself.
My vulnerability is what's weakening me. My fear, I suppose, is what's weakening me. Why won't she just kill me? I can feel the sliced flesh still bleeding. I can feel blood dripping down my legs and arms. I can't look. I won't look. It hurts to move. My ribs are stabbing my innards, as if they had been kicked, smashed, and crushed into me. Tears, yes, I can taste them. So many.
"You're pathetic. Merely nothing just filled with fear and vulnerability. Weak. It disgusts me to look at you. The mere image of you is grotesque. You won't even answer my questions, after all, you and you're weak, vulnerable, idiocy is what you make me become." I could hear her little sighs. I could feel her hands; they were soft, touching me. I almost didn't want her to stop, yet at that same moment, I wanted her to go ahead and kill me - rid me of this anguish that she, I, have done to myself.
"Goddamn you!" I screamed, I sobbed, I choked, again. I couldn't contain myself, sadness, pain, hate, anger. All of this was growing so great inside of me I felt I would explode into tiny pieces of it all. Sand paper. It seems that is what she used. She continued. I screamed. "Stop!" I choked another cough. Blood. She was ripping at my wounds. I could feel the layers of skin peeling away.
"Wake up!" Who was this? She was screaming, crying. "WAKE UP!" I could feel it like a blow to the face.
I shot up instantly. I could still feel the pain. I didn't pay any attention to anything around me. I screamed. Tears, in my sleep again. Someone grabbed me. "Get away! Don't touch me!" I panicked and fell off my bed into the floor. My legs, arms, stomach. Pain. I can still feel it. My vision was so blurry. I burst into more tears. That person, grabbing at me. "Stop!" I felt I couldn't breathe. "Stop!" I repeated myself. I'm dying. "I'm dying." I mumbled. I felt the death growing in me.
"You're not dying now let me hold you. Please!" They wrapped their arms around me. I winced. “CELESTE!” The tone, the sound of her saying my name. It was then that I felt warmth in their arms. I recognized the voice again. I recognized the smell, the touch. My nerves became calm and I quieted my sobs.
"Mom, I love you, mommy. I love you. Don't let her do this to me anymore. Don't let me fall asleep. Please, mommy." I was babbling. I began pleading with her. She merely held me, quieted me, kissed me, rocked me as if I were small child.
After my mom walking in and finding me that way, I had been going to a psychiatrist for about a month now. I hated it. I could never explain the dreams to her, how they happened. I could never find the words to use to explain the pain I felt. I could never. I knew the dreams. I remembered them as if I had lived them. But I could never truly tell her, open up to her. If only I could find a way to let her dream them too, but why would I want someone to feel the same pain that I felt. Go through that torture, that anguish. Be enveloped by so many emotions all at once. Pain, sadness, anger, hate, anguish, agony, worthlessness, disappointment, the list could go on forever. I could only tell her how the dreams made me feel, that it was as if I had truly lived them. My explanations were always simple and easy, never truly filled with depth or reason. I was perpetually confused.
My life soon after became a whirlwind of paranoia and depression. I was unceasingly discontent. Consistently changing positions in my seat merely to keep myself awake. I became an insomniac of sorts. My sleep was very limited, two to three hours each night. Every hour filled with tribulation. Each night waking myself the same way, crying in my sleep, screaming, being startled to the point my body begins to twitch rapidly.
Its summer now, I’ve been staying home more often. My mom doesn’t believe it to be safe for me to stay the night with a friend, or even family member. I’ve been visiting my dad often; he’s oblivious to my night terrors still. At the moment, I’m sitting in front of the computer, attempting to type something logical, something that’s not filled with nonsense. But my attempt has failed terribly, more than once in the past week. I think I’m just going to leave this petty attempt alone for now. It tires me to think so hard on something that once came to me so easily. I need to get away from this place, this blank computer screen. I need to see someone. I need to see Odelisse. Ah, Odelisse. The name fills me with joy simultaneously.
I walked to my mom's room. I wanted to just yell her name, have her come to me. But I felt it would be better to go to her. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
I’m so tired of being around this place, of seeing the same thing everyday, so I need to at least try. “Do you think I could stay the night with Odelisse tonight, please?” My question seemed only a question. But it was really, to me, a need. I needed to get out, to sleep in a different bed, to rid myself of the same objects I saw everyday of the week. Odelisse was the only friend I truly had, but she was more than just a friend to me, she was a love, a need. She was the core of my heart, the reason of my being. She was everything; she helped me just by speaking to me, being with me, holding me. This question was more than a question, it was a need.
“No, you need to stay home, you shouldn’t be going anywhere. It’s -“
“Mom, please, I need to. You have no idea how tired I am, not because of lack of sleep, but I’m tired of this place, I’m tired of the same thing surrounding me everyday, I’m tired mom, I’m just tired. I need to see her. Please mom?” I was vehement when I cut her off, but my anger didn’t show. I was simply pleading to leave. Pleading to be released. Yearning for her answer to change.
“Why? Why do you feel this way?" She asked me, I knew she really needed to know, I knew I should answer this question. But she just continued, ruined the chances of me answering. "My answer is no, and you’ll thank me when you’re older and you have kids of your own.” Such a mom answer.
I didn’t answer her question. I walked away, I felt yelling wasn’t the right way to go, and if I had stayed in the room yelling would have been exactly what I would resort to. So I went back to my room. I cried, small tears. Not like the way I cried in my dreams or the way I cried when I woke from my dreams. I just cried, quietly. I cried out of anger, of loneliness, of sadness.
I was pushing myself to the border. Trying to think of when I should stop it all and try to take steps back, but it was difficult to just stop. I couldn’t control these emotions inside me, no matter how many times Phacia, my psychiatrist, told me I could. I couldn’t control my dreams. And I certainly couldn’t control my mother or anyone else around me. Something in me wanted to turn back around, give it another shot, say, ‘So can she come here?’ But I knew the answer to that would be no as well. My mom was in fear of anyone finding out about my dreams, my paranoia, my depression. Of course, I had already told Odelisse all of it, she knew more than my mom knew, more than Phacia knew. The only reason for that is because the words aren’t forced out of me when told to her. They’re more willing. Not because of whom she is, but because they don’t get mixed up when I’m trying to explain them to her.
I decided to call her. I needed someone to talk to right now and I don't feel I could talk to my mom right now. It's not that she wouldn't understand, I'm sure she would understand, it's just that I don't want my mom to find out...
"May I speak to Odelisse please?"
"Sure, hold on one second?"
A few seconds later, the urge I'd been having growing stronger, I heard her voice. "Hello?" The urge was gone immediately.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Oh, Celeste, hey ! Not much really, just sitting around being bored. I was thinking about you right when you called." That brought a smile to my face, my heart jumped. I was happy once again.
"Really? How odd. Haha, well, I was thinking about you too. Then again if I weren't why would I have called?" I had a loss of words at times when talking to her. Not that it was uncomfortable, no, she's known me for years now. She's all I have, the most important person in my life.
She laughed. "I don't know, why would you?"
"I asked my mom if I could come see you today."
"Really? What did she say? No, again?"
"Of course. She's so afraid of people finding out about my dreams and all, but my paranoia is getting worse. I'm sure people don't notice when I jump out of my skin if they walk up behind me." Sarcasm was dripping from my voice.
"Oh yeah, I'm sure they don't. Well, I just hope things get better. I wouldn't want you getting into that horrible habit of yours again. I hated that, it hurts, you hurting yourself kills me. I mean, I know it hurts you, but it's so much worse knowing you've done that or are doing it, it kills me."
Yes, I know, she knew everything except that. I don't want her to have to go through pain too, just because of my idiocy. "Yeah, you don't have to worry, I mean, why would I start that again? It really did nothing for me, and more importantly I know how much it hurts you. I would never want to hurt you." It was true, I would never want to hurt her. But it was my way of coping, it was my release. She can't know.
"I know, I'm just worried about you, that's all. Well, listen, I've got a lot to do right now. My mom and I are cleaning and she says I need to go." My joy was shot down again, I felt alone when I didn't have her presence or voice to keep me company. "I love you, and I'll call you later, okay?"
"Sure, no problem, I love you too."
"Bye, hun."
"Bye." She was gone, again. I needed her back instantly. I felt the need to redial the number right after I had hung up. Right after I had heard the beeping from the phone. But I held back that urge. I just... did what I had to do.
Chapter 2; Digging deeper now
“So I understand you’ve had quite a past with self mutilation?” She glared intently into my eyes, though I knew she didn’t veritably care. After all, she is only doing her job; digging deep into my life, attempting to, so rudely, conclude my problems. They always believe there is a definite answer, always logical.
I smiled faintly, “Yes.” nodding along with my words.
“Have you,” she approached this steadily, though I knew the question already, “thought about hurting yourself again, or even began to do so, since you’ve been having these dreams of yours?”
These dreams of mine? I didn’t like the term, but I listened contently. Pondering the question, I looked away from her. I was indecisive, should I answer honestly? I looked back up, trying to avoid eye contact.
“No. Of course the thought would be in my head every once in while, my being a previous self-mutilator and all. It was of course my way of coping, and I could use a nice, easy way to cope right now. But I know that it had never truly helped me cope in any sense, I just continued to allow myself to believe that it was the only way.” Satisfied with my answer, I left her with that.
I saw her nod; write something down on her large yellow notepad.
“Well, it’s 4 ‘o clock. Time is up for this afternoon, and I suppose I’ll be seeing you next week, Celeste.” She stood and opened the door for me.
I smiled to her. “Have a good day.”
I hated being in this bland place, but I had to wait for my mom to pay the lovely forty dollars an hour; money wasted on something meaningless. I waited in the car.
I guess Phacia decided to talk to my mom about something. I just wonder what they’re talking about, me of course. Hopefully nothing meaning I have to keep coming here more, the tiny rooms and paint smell nauseates me. The temperature of the building itself is unnerving.
“Celeste,” My mom, I suppose I must have zoned out. “Phacia has decided it would be best to put you on medication.”
I couldn’t find the right words to say. I’ve had many friends that have been subscribed to medications. I know it has never really helped them any at all. I, myself, never imagined my mother would agree to something like this.
“Lexapro.” I suppose that’s the drug.
“What, exactly, is it for?” I was in total shock.
“Manic depression.”
“Mom? Do you really believe that I’m depressed?” I couldn’t comprehend what was actually going on.
“Well, she’s decided to begin with just this one drug, you know, to see how things go.”
Well, I guess now I’ll be taking little pill tablets every day for the rest of my depressing, insane little life. This is just ludicrous; I honestly don’t know how to react to this. My mom is going to get my subscriptions tomorrow afternoon. Oh joy, I can’t wait. I’ll be anticipating this all night, no sleep for me, again.
I can feel it again, rising. That urge. I despise this. Well, I suppose I may just go straight home and take a long warm bath, slit my wrists while I’m in there. Well, never mind, then they might honestly believe I was a crazed mind. I'm sure they don't need something like a suicide to support their suspisions.
Ah, my little release.
I can't exactly tell anyone how I got caught up in all of it, or what it was that provoked me. I can't exactly explain why I feel it helps, or even why I've done it for so long, or why I continue to run back to it over and over again. But...
Life to me has always been a sort of game. Something I could just toy with, toy with others, toy with myself. But I was always so serious, so disgustingly depressed, and sorrowful. Wallowing in my own pity I grew to detest myself and feel nothing but malice for the inner of me. Resulting in that which I could never turn back, I grew cold. And realizing then that life wasn't but a game, wasn't something I could restart in the place I left off, or start completely anew. I realized I fucked up; I was destroying the only life I could and would lead with my ignorance. So I went on, always distracted, always feeling loneliness, and insecurity. Always feeling broken and incomplete. I was ready to grow up. And in my mind I was somewhat of a very ignorant adult. Unaware of the truth in the world that soon stabbed my gut, and smacked my cheeks with cold hands. I turned my back on all that was left of me. I was eager to find myself and know all of me, but I was much too young to do so. It was all much too soon. Not to say that I was shallow, not to say that I was completely ignorant to my surroundings. But it was there. And my depression grew on me, and became numb to me. Though through all my hating it I wanted it back once the emptiness sunk in. I wanted nothing but to feel again, to feel anything. Sorrow if it be, if it were all for me to feel. I wanted it, I longed for the touch of emotion. But it never came. For years it stayed away, and I, but a child looking for an easy escape, picked up a wonderful habit. A habit so I would call it. A disorder others may call it. But the only thing it really could be called is, a release.
Ah, the escapist and their escape.
Everyday I needed it, everyday I couldn't function without it. Even if it be only once. And some people have chosen that path too, but for all the wrong reasons the people around me chose to follow. They were eager for attention, eager to be considered depressed, eager to be different, to have a sort of disability. They were eager for what they themselves could truly not handle. So I sneered at them, I was even more sickened by their pathetic reasonings than I was by my own weakness. Yet I continued my escape, my door, my window, I continued to slice, to stab, whatever form it may be, but always with my blade.
Never would I be without my best friend, so I considered it to be, before anyone around me. That was my only true friend, it was like it could understand what I needed, and so it chose to give me that which I was seeking. I was seeking something, but I was too ignorant to know what it was. All I knew was, I wanted to have that stinging coldness touch me, to dig into me, to fill me and drain me. That is what it did for me, right? It did fill me with the love I needed as it kissed me with its cold metal. It kissed my arms, my thighs, my hips. It kissed my hands, my stomach, I wanted for it to kiss my face. And as it kissed me it stole things away. And I allowed this to happen, merely because it was what I thought I needed. It stole those images, my horrid memories; it stole the ache that I no longer felt. It stole the tears that only stayed inside of me. And it took my screams and drained all of me. That blade, my gorgeous shining blade. How I loved it to the fullest. And at the time it was all I really loved. Not the man that was there in my life. No, did I ever really love him? For almost two years it seemed as though I did. But he wasn't there to stay, not like my friend, the kind of friend that never leaves. Oh how it always let me choose the fun of the night. If it were to have eyes and a mind, I would be the one to choose the movie. It gave me the control that I needed, as my ignorance gave me no control of my life.
So I hung onto it like one would hang on to their deafening heartbeat before they die. I didn't wish death upon me, I wished feeling, emotion, I wished release. I was given my wishes every night and morning. How I loathed it, those wishes, that control, oh, it sickened me. But beyond that loathing was a love never to be broken. No one could've given me that which my blade bestowed upon me. No one could've broken my walls down long enough to even try. So as I was surrounded by those pretending to love me, and those who truly did, my eyes and heart deceived me. As I thought that no one, not even those of my family cared for me even the slightest. I begged for a new blade each night. A new friend as the first got old and rusted with blood. But it was more than my blood that covered my many, many friends. It was all the inner of me that I detested. It was all of my screams that never came out. It was all of my tears that never rained upon my cheeks. It was all of my memories that have never TRULY left me. It was all of those little things that brought nothing, but a sense of disgust and sadness upon me. So I had many of those little friends. Many of those who allowed me the control in the relationship. And I had many that I held on to, never thrown away. Because like those things I couldn't let go of, I had memories with them too. And so I continued to hold on to the physical crimson colored inner of me, though the beauty faded as the inner dried and died. And it became brown. And that was all that I saw. Because the brown told me that the released evil inside me was dead and no longer contained its beautiful life that I longed to feel as if I had - though I knew I did. But that truth wasn't clear to my eyes, and it was hazy to even see inside of me, much less for others to try and peak. And so I began to let them in, those who I thought never cared, and even those who I knew truly didn't. As I wanted to let go of it all in a form of words more than just that physical matter. And so I laid all of me down in front of strangers and loved ones. To let them hold carry the weight on their shoulders too. And it lightened my load, but never really helped. And I soon began to rid myself of the older blades, as the sight and even smell sickened me completely. But they grew and became stronger with my hands to lead the way. And they were always there for me. Like a mother for her child. They never moved until I helped them to. They never abandoned me like other friends chose to. They never grew tired of my company or began to detest me. They were surrounding me, and I believed more that they would help, if only I could have more time with them, if only I could receive more kisses. And so they kissed me, as I asked. And I asked them in the morning, I asked them after school, I asked them in the shower, and before I laid my head to sleep. And they always did as I asked. They waited on me, hand and foot.
My life was heading downward, I knew this. But I lost all care. And so I spiraled. I fell down in circles, and once I hit the ground, I broke all bones, and I couldn't move, I didn't dare try. So I felt abandoned, or more so knew I was. As my friends continued to do as I pleaded them to, their kisses subsided in emotion. The feeling of them grew to nothing. And so I became numb to my beautiful blades as well. And I knew then, it was time to say goodbye to them. But I never really said goodbye. I always kept them, hid them in dark places - corners and drawers. I hid them away from me. I was angry, I felt again, but I was angry with my friends. Because they let me down, and so the loathing of them grew greater, but I still felt the need for their company. And I took them from their hiding places each night before the lights went out. And we played in a way we never played before. We played together, and drew on each other. Well more so, I let them draw on me. We drew stars, hearts, and pretty little words. We played like children. And we never, still, grew tired of one other. But we never shared kisses like we did before, and I knew I missed it, but I tried not to care. And so I went on without their love, and our relationship grew to be like children on a playground. I no longer cried for them, and they no longer needed me to. It was just the time together that I loved, but after we were finished playing I always put them back, back in the corners and drawers; to hide them from me, and then I would cry, so that they couldn't see. And I cried because of the loss of passion with them. The loss of their wonderful kisses. I cried alone from then on. And I knew that they wouldn't help, I knew they never did, but that’s not what I told myself.
And that was the only romance I had ever shared. Well, at least shared to its fullest. I shared it with commitment, with care. I shared my love with them. I shared my secrets; they knew me. They knew the inner of me like no one had ever known before. Not even those I felt I truly loved. They led me on, and I loved them, but they never knew all of my love or any of my innards. They never knew, and no one knew, no one but those little friends of mine. And after our infatuation died and we began to be like children in the schoolyard. They knew, but I shut them out. I hid them from me, and that is how it was for the longest time. And we would play, though I only let out my emotions when I was alone. Then and only then did I show that I had all this love to give and no one to give it to. Then and only then did I show my tears and sorrow. Then and only then did I let free my pity in myself. No one has felt the love I have- until, well, until Odelisse. There were others before. But they aren't the same. She doesn't toy with me. She doesn't throw me like a rag doll or lead me on to think one thing and then another. She's beautiful. More beautiful than any blade I ever touched, and her kisses are more healing than any kiss my friends gave me.
And Odelisse was the one person that helped me to end my razorblade romance, my bloody kisses. My days of pain were over.
Well, at least that’s what I had thought. Ever since these dreams had begun, I started back. I made myself more little friends, and they loved me again. I know, Odelisse helped, she truly did, but now that my mother has deprived me of seeing her, or anyone else at that, I haven’t known exactly what to do, what to resort to. I need something, do I not?
So, to answer the question Phacia had asked earlier, yes, I have. But I couldn't have told her that, she already feels the need to put me on anti-depressants. Lexapro. The name sounds so farmiliar. I wonder if I knew anyone before who has taken that, or if I had just heard about it, maybe commercials. But I've recently stopped watching television altogether. I find no joy or entertainment while staring at that bright screen.
So I've begun a bad habit, once again. It's like smoking, so hard to stop. I've never truly quit. I know, I've said many times, told many people, that I know it has never helped me the way I made myself believe. I know it doesn't, I don't just say that to make people think I've grown more mature, or even that I know how wrong it was. Not that I don't know, but I have found that it seems to be the best way I have of coping, whether or not it be the best option. It's all I've been given, and I've taken it into me.
I haven't done much in the past few hours. I took a long shower, it's almost midnight now. I should probably try to get some sleep, but I don't feel the need to. Mainly because I'm not so tired, but I'm afraid of having another dream. I know that what I do to myself outside of these dreams is bad enough, and they're the primary cause of my mutilation. I don't need them over powering anymore than they already are. I don't need more of a reason to take things out on myself. Though I know this isn't particularly my fault, I feel in some sense that it is. I guess because I know that the things my child form is syaing to me in the dreams is somewhat true. I am afraid, I am vulnerable, and weak. I don't know what I'm afraid of, but I know that I am. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm afraid to reveal my true self to anyone, afraid to show forth the weakness inside of me, let people realize how emotional and sensitive I truly am. But if I knew the answer I'd surely tell this little bitch. I'd rather reveal my fears than go through what she's put me through.
I know what I'm partially afraid of, despite people finding out that I'm probably the most sensitive person alive, I cower in the thought of loneliness, perhaps that is one of the reasons for my hurting myself, me feeling so alone all the time, but I suppose that isn't such a good reason. I honestly don't know. What do I know? Fuck it. I'm so oblivious to even myself.
Well, I'm glad I'm not so tired tonight. My mom didn't go into work, I don't want her waking up along with me, while I scream my little lungs out. It was just my luck to fall asleep and her coming home to find me that way. If only I could have managed to wake up screaming before she got home, or maybe even have been able to keep myself awake. But I've never been so blessed.