So here I am. Back again, ready and willing to reveal another page of my life to anyone willing to listen.
Tuesday, November 4th, 2003
So I was talking to Chris, catching up from those old bitter days of our stubborness. He mentions something about Lorraine telling him what she said about me changing. She, Ashley and Stephanie were really worried about me and that my attitude had changed since the last two months. I just wasn't the same. And it's not just them, I realized that myself. But hearing that my friends were scared to confront me about it really bothered me, and I was embarassed. Wait, let me back-track a little here: About a week or so ago, I started cutting myself again. It was actually the first time I started cutting my arms, before I would just do it to my legs... since it wouldn't be visible.
I was sitting there, on the livingroom table. I had been absent a few times from Analysis, and I was just totally flustered about some of problems... eventually, I just blanked out and forgot how to do
anything. As I rock back and forth from my chair in fetal position, tears of frustration started to stream down my face. I was going mad. So finally, I got up and headed towards the bathroom. I took my sister's "blade on a stick" (she uses it for her eyebrows... don't ask) and went back to the table. I examined the blade for a while, played around with it, poked my skin a few times, experimented with it. Then, I wondered how it would look like if I just cut my arm.. just a little. I was a little rusty and hesitant, so I went slow. It only cut the surface and didn't even bleed. The next thing I knew, there were three puntures on my arm... weak ones.... didn't even bleed.
So, I got frustrated even more. I mean, I couldn't even make myself bleed. I felt like I couldn't do anything, that I was just so damn stupid that I couldn't even make myself fucking bleed. With that, I just started SLASHING my arm, adding more pressure each time. The first cuts were small and shallow, and barely bled. Finally, I decided I was just going to do one last slash... this was the toughest one of all of them. I kept the blade at one spot for a long time, hesitating to do the "last slash". Voices were taunting me in my head.
Just do it..... you're a fucking wuss if you don't do it.... I know you can do it... wanna try?...... try it!....... you'll like it!...... JUST FUCKING DO IT.
Slash.
This time, the wound was deep. Blood immediately started gushing out, and I just stared at it with amazement. I licked it once or twice. After a while, I got sick of the taste and I just grabbed a clean towel out of the closet and continued to control the blood. After that, I got addicted. I made more, more, even more slashes. Just one after the other, never stopping, laughing in my head as I did it. And I loved it.
After what seemed like an eternity, I realized that I was still not done with my Analysis homework. I drank my fourth cup of coffee, relaxed, and forced myself to do it. I didn't care if I didn't understand it, I just had to do it. I wanted the points... I
needed the points. I stayed up until 4 AM just doing my homework, then stopping every now and then to do a little
cut to keep myself awake.
And that was just last week. Let's jump to two days ago.
"
Ring ring"
The sound of my alarm clock woke me up. It's 6:45. I lay in bed for a while, thinking my clock was 15 minutes ahead and knowing that I had enough time to shower and get ready for school. Laying there in the darkness.... I remembered I still wasn't caught up in Analysis, I even missed a whole day of the teacher teaching new material, so I started to worry again. I then remembered my conflict with Mrs. Murphy and how much I had hated her.... more worries. I just felt so guilty for not being the "perfect student" I was or can be, and the thoughts of me not being myself just..... it just made me want to disappear.
I started having thoughts and sadistic fantasies. I wondered, if only I can fall into a comma and wake up in 5 years or so, everything would better. I didn't have to kill myself, and I could still escape. So, I started planning my "non-suicidal comma escape". I came up with the
perfect plan. I could deliberately fall and hit my head on a hard table, or on the floor and just wish that I won't break my neck and die in the process. I just sat there comtemplating over my plan, until I spotted my mom. She was roaming around, saying "good morning" to our birds, getting breakfast ready. I started thinking that the whole comma plan was stupid, and that I should just deal with this shit
now.
I must have hesitated for a good seven minutes. My new plan was to tell my mom everything, in hopes that she'd send me off to a mental hospital so I could have my "escape". After a long, long time of hesitating, I finally called her.
"Mom!!!!" I screamed as loud as I could
Suprised, she starts walking towards my bed. She looked at me in confusion, and asked what was wrong.
"I... Uhh.... I don't think.... wait, what I mean is.... I just.... I just don't feel like doing anything anymore." Struggling to fight my vulnerabilty, tears of frustration started to show.
"What are you talking about?" My mom comforted, looking highly concerned.
"I don't know what's wrong with me. The things that I used to love doing, I don't anymore... and.... and even my friends have noticed it. It's me, my personality isn't the same, I don't FEEL the same, I don't know. I don't know!"
I'm not going to type our whole conversation here, but you get the point. I had a fucking breakdown. For two hours that morning, my mom and I talked and talked and cried and cried. Our conclusion was for me to see therapy. She called our family physician after our talk, and scheduled me as soon as possible, which was yesterday. For the rest of the day, my mom took me out shopping, we ate out, rented some DVDs, and just hung out along with my sister.
Moving along to yesterday. My doctor and I talked for a bit. She asked me a few questions about my feelings, asked me why I was depressed. I told her I didn't know why, I just didn't feel like myself. I felt different. After a while, my mom and her faded into a conversation about my sister and her diabetes. I got kind of pissed off, since this was supposed to be "my time", but I quickly got over it. I just got bitter. The doctor noticed that, too and seemed kind of sorry when she realized my change of attitude towards her after she was done talking to my mom. I just started looking at her with my most evil eye, and stopped cooperating and answering her questions in full answers. After that, she just recommended Paxil and gave my mom a list of psychiatrists.
When we left the doctor's office, I told my mom I was hungry for soup, so we went to the mall. I bought a new scarf and fashionable hand-thingies from Wet Seal with my gift certificate, and ate vegetable soup from the Korean place. Afterwards, we went to Walgreens and got my medication.
Last night was the first time I took Paxil. It wasn't even "last night", I had taken it around 5 but the shit still kept me up until 3AM. I just had a cup of coffee, and that was it. So yeah, I was there once again... on the living room table, in front of my homework. This time, it was different. I felt
happy, yet slightly schizophrenic. The voices, DAMN those voices. I just stared at my Cisco homework for a long time, and with my legs crossed, sitting ever so peacefully on the chair, I reached for that notorious blade. Again, I just played around with it for a while. Scratched my tongue with it, slightly made horizontal lines on my left arm (shallow cuts, the ones that don't bleed) just for fun.
Until...
My skin just started
itching for it. I wanted it, I needed it, I HAD TO HAVE IT. In reflection with my homework, I just HAD to do it. I began the slashes once again.
One slash, two slash, three slash, four...... Cut, cut, cut away until I hit the floor..... Make me bleed, make me bleed, and satisfy my need..... I yearn for this pain, I live for this pain..... until blood comes trickling down like rain...... no more... no more sadness. After probably 15-18 slashes on my lower arm, I decided I wanted to carve my name in blood on my lower left hand. And I did. Now, I have "Mil" engraved on my hand. I also liked stars, so I decided to make a little star in the middle of my hand. I thought about slitting my wrist just to see what it was like, but I didn't. I didn't want to die just yet, and plus, I was happy! Right? Before I went to sleep, I counted up my slashes.
34 total.
Yeah. I must have left out a lot of detail, but that's basically it. We're currently looking for a psychiatrist, because my doctor said that taking pills wouldn't be good without the emotional guidance. I agree with her, I just needed someone to talk to who's willing to listen. I mean, my friends are fucking wonderful and they're all willing to listen to my problems and support me, but at this point, I think I need professional help. It'll be fun.
Ah, okay. I feel like reading now.
