Anonymous Story #16

        As I sit across from her, I stare at her pen scribbling across her notepad. She leans forward and stares me in the eyes. She asks, “Why?” I’ve been going to therapy for less than a year. At most a couple of months. It’s not like I was expecting some miracle, but I had been expecting it to at least help a little. I had to make the call myself. My parents were blind to my problems. I tried to comfort myself by convincing myself that at least they were paying for my therapy, which meant that they had to at least care a little…right? That’s what I hoped. But, I knew deep down that they didn’t. Who was I kidding? I was nothing to them, just like how I was nothing to my “friends” in middle school. That’s when it all began. In middle school, I had a group of friends who I loved. I had been close to each one of them for some period of time. These were my closest friends, they were like my sisters. I had a close friend outside of school, L fed me a bunch of bs. But, I still believed L. I had also made new friends at school, and I got closer to them as I felt the coldness from my original group of friends. I could feel their judging looks every time I wasn’t looking and their venomous whispers every time I turned my back. One day they tell me that I made up my friend, L. They criticized me for not studying enough and for spending time with my new friends more than them. It hurt. A lot. That was the first day I went on the web and searched up ways to inflict self harm. And, that was the first day I placed a knife on my bare skin. Not a butter knife, a vegetable knife. It was cold, it sent a chill through me. I placed the knife on my skin, and I watched as blood dripped down as I drew my knife across my skin. I was smart, I left it somewhere nobody can see. That’s when I started cutting myself daily. I couldn’t stop it. I needed to feel something, anything. But, I needed something that would last longer, something that would slowly and gradually increase the pain until it was almost excruciatingly unbearable. So I started to use dull razors, pushing hard against my skin, rubbing it back and forth. Slowly at first then faster and faster, feeling the dull blade tear against my skin, ripping it open. Feeling the thick blood crawling down my skin. They apologized, and I forgave. I shouldn’t have. Everybody started ganging up on one person at a time. I was a part of that, I shouldn’t have been. I was mean and cruel, my cutting gradually lessened. I’ve wished so many times that I could apologize to the people that I was harsh too. I will one day, when I find the strength and courage too. Then, one day, the judgments were placed back on me again and one of my other friends, B. We found a chat that they had thought they set on private. Again, criticizing me. They said that my tears were fake, called me a liar. They said that I was turning B against them. All I was doing was trying to be there for her. I started cutting even more, it was worse than before. I couldn’t stop it. B forgave them, and then turned her back on me and started whispering about me as well. That hurt like hell. I was there for her, always. I didn’t understand how she could possibly just turn on me. I considered transferring to another school. Start fresh. They found out, and one of them called me a bitch. I was ready to end my life. I figured since I had already hit rock bottom, I might as well just give up. I had a death note and everything ready. Razors, knife, pills. I didn’t want to live anymore. I was nothing. Therapy is an escape from reality. It gives me one full hour to clear my head. But, the scars will always be on my body, and the new and fresh cuts won’t have end to them, for now.