I'm honestly not sure when I started. It was a while ago, I know that much. I can remember the feelings I had in that moment, the moment I picked up the blade. They are the feelings that are still with me to this day. The feelings that control me, force me to take a blade to my wrist. The feelings that fill me with self-loathing. The feelings that make me feel isolated, forgotten. The feelings that make me feel like a burden. The feelings that make me feel like a monster. A demon.
I remember when I was a little younger, and I'd go out of my way to be obnoxious. To be a nuisance. It was the only way I could get anyone to send a look my way. I didn't even care if the attention was negative, or that everyone hated my guts. I just wanted someone, anyone, to acknowledge that I was there. That I was alive. That I existed. At the time that was all I needed. But soon it wasn't enough. I began to think...
If no one in the entire world cared about you, did you really exist at all?
Because what's the point in living if everything you do will always be wrong? If, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many times you had to claw and scrape and scream for anyone to even look at you, people would still hate you? Hate me? Hate me for what? What!? Did I do something wrong? Something bad? Something so bad that an entire village would a hate and shun a child? And my parents... Where were they? Dead? Or did they hate me as much as the rest of the village, so they left me as an orphan because staying with me would cause such great shame?
When those thoughts came, they came in torrents. There was no way to stop them. Slowly but surely they began to fill me up, taking up every piece of space in my mind, suffocating me, until eventually I thought I was going to burst. I was miserable. There was so much anxiety and frustration and pain. So much so that there was nothing I could to do to rid myself of it.
It would take awhile, but eventually I would realize that I had depression. I had heard of depression of course, but I had never entertained the possibility that I myself might be depressed. I remember telling myself, "That's impossible. people who are depressed don't laugh and smile all the time like I do." But in time I would begin to understand that laughter wasn't supposed to feel exhausting. It wasn't meant to drain you of your energy, to the point that at the end of the day you just want to curl up in a ball and sleep for a week.
The day I realized I was depressed I broke down. I had cried when I was upset before, but this was different. I didn't cry. Not a single tear fell. It felt as though I was falling, a sickening nausea in my stomach. I was in a state of clinical shock. I couldn't move. Couldn't talk. I could do nothing except lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling blankly. It took two days, but eventually Iruka-sensei came looking for me. When he found me, mute and paralyzed, He immediately left to find help. I wasn't sure of much from that time. Everything was a blur, but I do know that Iruka-sensei found me, Left, and returned with Hokage-sama.
I was pretty much out of it, so I didn't have time to wonder why Iruka-sensei had sent for Hokage-sama instead of a doctor or something. (Later I would find out about Kyuubi, and that would put the puzzle pieces together, but at the time it made no sense.) It would take four days, but eventually I was able to talk and move again.
Naturally, Hokage-sama asked me what happened. But I made up some sort of excuse, which I delivered loudly and obnoxiously. I think Hokage-sama could tell that he was never going to get the truth out of me, so he left soon after. Part of me was grateful that Hokage-sama had not interrogated me, or forced me to tell him what had really happened, but another part of me... To be completely honest, I kind of wish he had.
Once I returned to the academy, Iruka-sensei made sure not to mention anything about my little incident. I figured Hokage-sama had made him promise not to say anything about it, because I could tell it was taking him some effort to keep up normal conversations with me, or to scold me in the classroom. It didn't take me much effort though.
By that time I was pretty adept at hiding my emotions. I could easily whip up a grin whenever I felt I needed it. It was vital, and still is, that I kept my insecurities hidden. The villagers saw me as a burden. I wanted to show them that I could be reliable, that they could trust me. If they knew about how doubtful and insecure I truly am, I would be completely disregarded.
After my "incident", my memories are foggy. The days passed each other endlessly, and the weight in my chest continued to grow heavier and heavier. It felt like there was tar in my lungs. It was hard to get up in the morning, and throughout the day I felt as though I was suffocating. That was when I found my release.
Cutting. It's something we are all somehow aware of, whether we've encountered it or not. I can't remember when I decided to pick up the blade, but I do remember how it felt, the cold sharp edge of the knife, slowly pressing further and further into my skin, until little beads of red began to appear. I remember my utter fascination with the feeling of the blade dragging through my flesh, leaving a stream of red behind it. I remember focusing on all the weight in my chest, and imagining that I was forcing it all down into my wrists. That was the beginning of my addiction. It was the only way to relieve some of the weight in my bones. And it worked, for awhile...
But it's not working anymore.
Everyday, when I cut, I've had to cut deeper and deeper, to feel any sort of relief. The bleeding gets worse, but it doesn't seem to be making a difference anymore. I'm back to square one, and I have nothing left to turn to.
That's why you're reading this, instead of hearing it from me personally.
I'm tired. Utterly exhausted. I've never been a very patient person, and I know that I don't have strength left to wait for a miracle. I want to be able to breathe freely, and I feel like the only way to do that was this.
I'm sure you've guessed by now that this is my suicide note.
I want to say, that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I lied. I'm sorry that I was so insecure, that even in death I wasn't sure if I had the right call you my friends.
perhaps in another life, I'd have earned the right to call you my family.
~Naruto Uzumaki