"I don’t know when it happened, or why it
happened. You just stopped. There were
no more phone calls in the middle of the
night when you couldn’t sleep, no more
texts that read, “I miss you.” The only time
you said I was beautiful, was when I asked
if I was. It’s not that I needed your validation,
I just missed hearing it. When you answered
the phone your voice sounded dull, the excuses
were, “I’m tired.” “I don’t feel well.” I never
knew the right words to say until after the
conversation ended, my talking just felt like
crunching leaves under your feet. You’d walk
over me subconsciously, I felt like I was the
gum on the bottom of your shoe. You’d get
rid of me faster than you’d let me stay.
I always held on a little too tight, a little too
long, I guess I was just waiting for the favor
to be returned. But your arms became
cemented to your sides, like walls around
your soul. I became the vines growing up
the bricks, trying to be tall enough to get a
peek of what’s behind them. I never was
tall enough, I never was good enough.
Soon enough the I love you’s just slipped
your mind, you forgot. I stopped noticing
how long it took you to reply, it became
our new normal. The nights we went without
talking, the mornings that went without the
good, the days we talked for five minutes, it
was all normal. You stopped. So, I’ll stop.
Or at least, I’ll try.."
i. There is no painless way to kill yourself, someone, somewhere, will feel the pain.
ii. The internet says, “sleeping pills, you will fall asleep and never wake up! You won’t feel a thing!” When that is a lie, your stomach will turn to fire and your throat will fill with the taste of your own stomach acid. You will drown in your own spit. That isn’t even the worst party, it’s when your mother comes home from work. She will walk through the door, and call out your name. She will call and call and there will be no response, maybe you’re in the shower? Maybe you’re asleep? She will walk up the stairs, knock on your door to receive no answer. When she walks in she will see the lifeless body of her baby girl, lying on the floor. Her heart will stop but she will run to you with shaky knees, touching your face that is now still and cold. Her body will be on fire, and her throat will begin to tighten, the sharp pains in her chest will feel like knives in the heart. That image will kill her more than her own death, it will haunt her living years each night. She will no longer be alive, but just as dead as you are now.
iii. Years ago, your father showed you the gun safe he kept in the house in case of emergencies, you knew the pass code, you knew how to shoot and loud, at least you had an idea. They say a bullet to the brain will do the job.. So one night, when your father is fast asleep, you will be down the hallway staring down the mouth of a gun.
iv. You may think that when you’re dead and gone you will not be hurting anyone. You may think when you slide a blade across your wrist, you’re only hurting yourself. Yet I have learned that is not true, it’s not. The person who will find your body, the one who see’s the cuts, their chest will feel tight and they will feel like it was their fault for letting it get this far. The only mark you will be leaving on them is pain, hurt, and the question why? So please note this, there is pain in every suicide attempt, every death, every cut. You are not only hurting your life, but others too. Because you are cared for."
"I heard what you said. I’m not the silly romantic you think. I don’t want the heavens or the shooting stars. I don’t want gemstones or gold. I have those things already. I want…a steady hand. A kind soul. I want to fall asleep, and wake, knowing my heart is safe. I want to love, and be loved."
My best friend held me shaking in her arms as I begged her not to call 911, not to tell my parents. “I’ll be okay,” I promised through a trembling voice. To this day I still see shadows of the terrified expression she wore flash across her face whenever I seem anxious. When I slept over her house, she kept the medicine cabinet locked.
My mother had to pick up extra hours to afford my therapy. She came home each night with dark circles growing under her eyes like bruises. The only difference is that bruises eventually go away. When she brought me into work with her one night, all of her clients knew my name.
I met a boy who I shamelessly told all of my problems to. His back was breaking from the weight of my confessions and telling them to him didn’t even make it hurt any less. He’s in my gym class this year, and he only got a score of fourteen on the push up test. I think my heart stopped for a minute when he told the teacher it was because he has a bad back.
The people who love me tell me and when I stay silent they pretend it doesn’t hurt. I know it does because I know hurt. I’ve been hurt and I’ve hurt. Don’t you dare try to tell me I’m not a burden."
"At thirteen I started crying as silently as my wrists
started bleeding. I never understood why I always
felt too heavy, like I was buried under bricks and no
matter how much weight I lost, I felt like I took up too
much space in this room, in this world. I never
understood why I pushed the word sadness out of my
mind and convinced myself that I was fine even when
I was sitting in a bathtub full of my own blood. I never
understood why I walked around with a mask that some
people called a smile, and why I always felt like a fraud
at the end of the day. I never understood the way happiness
was suppose to feel and how people could call it a choice
because fuck, if it is a choice I wouldn’t be staring at the
walls wondering why I’m even breathing. I never felt loved
and I thought it was something I’d feel after letting him into
my bed, but after kissing boys whose lips I knew better than
their own personality, I still felt nothing but numb. I never understood why I was afraid of the doctor and afraid of
being told I was clinically depressed. The day the news
broke I still didn’t comprehend it, was I going to be like
Four years later, two medications, sessions of therapy,
my wrists no longer bleed but my soul does.
I’m seventeen now, and I still don’t understand."
"my scars are screaming
they want to be
opened up again"