People say that being suicidal is the most horrible feeling the world.
They're right.
But no one ever factors the fear. The people who feel the hurt and the pain and can't solve it. The people who pick up that blade or those pills and don't know what to do with them. It's the worst feeling in the world, that feeling. The people who cut don't know it. Not an "I won't do it" but an "I can't."
You can't do it because you can't bear the though of the instant of pain it would bring before relief. You can't handle the pain. You've had you fair share already. They don't know what it's like to wake up every morning in pain, do they? To wake up every morning and dry-swallow two pills from that bottle of Tylenol that you hide under your bed. You hide them because you hate them, and you can't show weakness. If you are going to be weak, you want to be weak on your own… no help from nature needed, thank you very much. You despise those painkillers because your doctor told you at age eight that they couldn't help you, they didn't know what was wrong. You'd just have to take Motrin every day for the rest of your life. Your mother thinks that's insane, drags you to another doctor who says the same thing. Now you realize every morning that they were right.
You have to wonder: What gives those little pills the power to dull the pain?
Then there's depression mixed with pain and envy of all the people who can do it and the feeling of failure because you're not strong enough to.
And that leads you to thinking you're crazy. That you just are kidding yourself. That it's your sub-conscious mind striving to be different and get attention.
That leads you to snap. You snap and you decide you're not suicidal and you're just kidding.
Truth is, there is no kidding.
When you feel suicidal, you feel suicidal, for whatever reason.
But you don't want to face it.
So you chose an act. A pretty face to hide behind. An obsession to throw yourself into. And it works… for a while.
That therapist your parents sent you too falls for it. She declares you a normal, well adjusted teenage girl. One year of sessions and that's what she says. She declared you fine and sane and send you back into the real world.
Ha. What does she know? But still, it's a rush. Knowing that that's one more person that you fooled. One more person who fell for your act.
And friends do the same. "You're seeing a therapist? Why?"
You tell them. Your parent's think you're suicidal. You don't mention that they're right.
Then they stick a spear into your heart—they laugh.
"Wow, parents are dumb."
I don't know why it's different then. But it is. There are two conclusions to that: You're a really good actor or they just don't care enough to notice.
You don't want either to be right.
So you get home and you climb into a shower, aching and sore from the day you've been through. And in the shower it washes away the dirt and the soreness and the mask.
So a shaking, suicidal girl is left hovering in the scalding shower, afraid to get out and knowing she can't stay in.
But there's that little razor there, mocking you, and you have to use it.
So you pick it up and use it. And sometimes you miss, when you're shaving in your vain attempts to be normal. On purpose, by accident, you don't know. But in that shower blood starts to flow. And the water turns red and it's the most beautiful, mesmerizing thing you've ever seen.
You stand there, watching it as it dilutes and goes down the drain.
No one knows. You get out and press on your cut and it stops.
Why do you stop it?
Because otherwise you'll mess up your act.
The act that's your life.
And people like the act. People who know you in the act are friendlier than the people who meet you when your mask is slipping.
And being liked is good… being normal is good. Whoever says normalcy is overrated—they're lying. They might like being out of it, and having their own group and being themselves, but if they had the chance to be themselves and be normal, they'd jump for it. They might not admit it, but they would.
So you stop the cut and you cover it up and you're secretly hoping someone will notice but no one does. No one cares enough to.
They're notice if it was on your wrist, wouldn't they?
But you don't have the courage to do that.
They're right.
But no one ever factors the fear. The people who feel the hurt and the pain and can't solve it. The people who pick up that blade or those pills and don't know what to do with them. It's the worst feeling in the world, that feeling. The people who cut don't know it. Not an "I won't do it" but an "I can't."
You can't do it because you can't bear the though of the instant of pain it would bring before relief. You can't handle the pain. You've had you fair share already. They don't know what it's like to wake up every morning in pain, do they? To wake up every morning and dry-swallow two pills from that bottle of Tylenol that you hide under your bed. You hide them because you hate them, and you can't show weakness. If you are going to be weak, you want to be weak on your own… no help from nature needed, thank you very much. You despise those painkillers because your doctor told you at age eight that they couldn't help you, they didn't know what was wrong. You'd just have to take Motrin every day for the rest of your life. Your mother thinks that's insane, drags you to another doctor who says the same thing. Now you realize every morning that they were right.
You have to wonder: What gives those little pills the power to dull the pain?
Then there's depression mixed with pain and envy of all the people who can do it and the feeling of failure because you're not strong enough to.
And that leads you to thinking you're crazy. That you just are kidding yourself. That it's your sub-conscious mind striving to be different and get attention.
That leads you to snap. You snap and you decide you're not suicidal and you're just kidding.
Truth is, there is no kidding.
When you feel suicidal, you feel suicidal, for whatever reason.
But you don't want to face it.
So you chose an act. A pretty face to hide behind. An obsession to throw yourself into. And it works… for a while.
That therapist your parents sent you too falls for it. She declares you a normal, well adjusted teenage girl. One year of sessions and that's what she says. She declared you fine and sane and send you back into the real world.
Ha. What does she know? But still, it's a rush. Knowing that that's one more person that you fooled. One more person who fell for your act.
And friends do the same. "You're seeing a therapist? Why?"
You tell them. Your parent's think you're suicidal. You don't mention that they're right.
Then they stick a spear into your heart—they laugh.
"Wow, parents are dumb."
I don't know why it's different then. But it is. There are two conclusions to that: You're a really good actor or they just don't care enough to notice.
You don't want either to be right.
So you get home and you climb into a shower, aching and sore from the day you've been through. And in the shower it washes away the dirt and the soreness and the mask.
So a shaking, suicidal girl is left hovering in the scalding shower, afraid to get out and knowing she can't stay in.
But there's that little razor there, mocking you, and you have to use it.
So you pick it up and use it. And sometimes you miss, when you're shaving in your vain attempts to be normal. On purpose, by accident, you don't know. But in that shower blood starts to flow. And the water turns red and it's the most beautiful, mesmerizing thing you've ever seen.
You stand there, watching it as it dilutes and goes down the drain.
No one knows. You get out and press on your cut and it stops.
Why do you stop it?
Because otherwise you'll mess up your act.
The act that's your life.
And people like the act. People who know you in the act are friendlier than the people who meet you when your mask is slipping.
And being liked is good… being normal is good. Whoever says normalcy is overrated—they're lying. They might like being out of it, and having their own group and being themselves, but if they had the chance to be themselves and be normal, they'd jump for it. They might not admit it, but they would.
So you stop the cut and you cover it up and you're secretly hoping someone will notice but no one does. No one cares enough to.
They're notice if it was on your wrist, wouldn't they?
But you don't have the courage to do that.