"I give up. I'm done trying."
Those six words. Their impact on me was incredible. They began to bore a hole in my heart as tears forced their way out of my eyes. I tried stopping them; my efforts were inadequate. There was nothing I could do to keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks and into my lap. Hot tears that had been contained and held back for days now were finally escaping. I had tried my hardest to be strong.
No. I hate that word. Strong.
Strong is a word used to describe people who could withstand their struggles without doing the things that I had resorted to. Strong is a word used to describe people who didn't let the things others said get to them and control their mindset. Strong is a word used to describe people who could hold onto their sanity after getting berated and emotionally drained every single day of their lives, and in all of that, still at least smile.
I was not strong. In fact, I was anything but strong.
I looked back at the text message again, through the tears that clouded my vision. He had given up on me. He was done trying to help me. I loved him with every fiber of my existence, and now, he was gone without a trace. It was my fault. I pushed him away when he was just trying to help me through my depression. I wanted his attention. I thirsted for it, and loved every second of it. Although the attention wasn't my primary motive, it was a significant factor in why I began to do what I did.
I turned off the bright screen, and suddenly I was left alone in the darkness, choking back sobs and letting the tears stream freely down my face. Breathe, I told myself. You've experienced worse, I tried to tell myself. But it was no use. This was undoubtedly the worst day of my entire life. I had made things too complicated, and it was no mystery why he had now given up. I told him it was no big deal and that he should leave me alone, and yet, I wanted him to keep pushing and insisting I tell him what was really wrong. Why had I done this? I was beginning to confuse myself. Was I going mad?
I looked across the room in the brown jewelry box that had finally been left alone for long enough to collect some dust. I had made it seventeen days without opening it to obtain the piece of metal that lay untouched inside. Surely I could make it another night…
No. I was done trying. I had just lost the one I loved, the only one I loved, forever. That, I was sure of. And, there was, of course, the other thing I was sure of: I couldn't go any longer without doing it.
I felt my way across the dark bedroom to the shelf where the small brown box lay. I felt across the shelf until I felt the cool wooden surface of where I kept the blade. I slowly put my fingers on the lid, and pulled it up gently, revealing the inside of the container. There, I saw the shine of the blade, reflected by the moonlight glistening in through the window curtains. I picked it up. I felt it around it my hands for a long moment, turning it over and over, contemplating whether or not this was the right thing to do. This tiny, cold piece of metal had control over my life right now. It was amazing how that worked.
I swiftly moved back over to my bed with the blade in hand. I pulled the large blanket that lay on the bed over my head. I pulled a small flashlight out from my pillowcase. I always kept it there for times like these. I wanted to see what I was about to do to myself. It was satisfying in a way that couldn't be described.
I pushed down the button to emit the light and laid it down beside me. I had my legs stretched out in from of me. I was wearing black shorts and a white t-shirt, both of which I would have to change by the next morning since I knew I would be seeing my mother downstairs at breakfast. I had to cover up the cuts; she could never know my dark secret.
That was when I finally did it. I dragged the blade slowly across my wrist, across the scars from previous times of self harming. I could barely feel the pain that would have been extreme for any normal human being. I was used to the stinging sensation by now, and it even provided me with a bit of pleasure. I lifted the blade after I completed the horizontal cut across my lower wrist, and watched as I bled. The blood flowed quickly out onto my arm. I didn't observe it for long before I made a swift second cut. Was I cutting too deep? Oh, what did I care? At this point, I honestly hoped I was. I was ready to leave this world and its cruelty.
I made several more cuts, and the number of how many was a mystery to me. I didn't care anymore. This feeling, this blade's affect, the feeling I craved every second and every hour of the day, I was finally getting. It was a satisfying relief like no other. And I loved it. It helped me to cope, and it was something I could turn to when things got rough. Like now. I was thoroughly enjoying every single aspect of the experience.
I began to get dizzy, on the brink of falling unconscious. I saw the blood collected on my arm, and I dropped the blade onto the bed sheet below me. I was done. I was satisfied for tonight. And with the way my body was reacting, it was probably my last night on Earth. My head fell onto a pillow, and I used my last bit of energy to reach my arm out, grasp the flashlight, and turn it. My eyes began to close, slowly but surely, and I smiled up at the ceiling as I took what was bound to be my last breath.