These are just my thoughts. My view of my own life.
I set high bars for myself. In elementary school I was doing my brothers homework, as he is a few years older than me. In middle school I can remember taking his homework because he wouldn't do it and I wanted to. I wanted to learn, to challenge myself. I wanted people to see me as smart.
I have rarely ever had to work to achieve B's or A's, which are top marks here. I just sort of did it. My family and others who knew me would speak with such pride in their voice when they spoke of me. I wanted that.
I wanted everyone to be proud of me. I wanted to be at the top of something. It just happened to be school for me.
I don't even remember when I started hating myself. I think it was around 6th grade, as I became more and more socially awkward. I lost friends, didn't know how to speak to strangers. Kids would make snide comments about me and I would pretend I didn't hear them. But I did, and I can still remember the comments I heard them make. I always had my nose in a book, and I liked it that way. I preferred that, actually. So I didn't really mind being alone at first. I used to sit alone at lunch, and that's when I started developing anxiety over "group" things. Group projects, presentations, hanging out in groups, etc. Anything that involved being social to more than one person at a time gave me immense social anxiety and I avoided it as much as possible. My instructors used to take off points from projects or activities because I refused to participate in groups. But I gladly took that over having to talk to others.
Eventually partner activities of any kind at school gave me social anxiety. Talking to someone I didn't know, or working with them, used to be impossible. I would sit there and fake doing whatever until I could leave, and then I'd actually do it alone later, on my own. I'd leave class for any reason to avoid getting put in groups, and at home I didn't really go out either. I spent my time alone, and at the time I didn't mind it.
The first time I cut was in 6th or 7th grade. I don't remember why I did it. I remember when people used to call me violent because to release anger back then, I'd scream and punch things. I'd throw things. That was just how I saw fit to express myself. But eventually that earned me a bad reputation, and I stopped. I think that's around the time I started self harming, because at least nobody else could see it.
I first got caught in 7th grade. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was wearing a black hoodie and it was spring, I think. Or just starting to be. My dad asked me to help him with brushing the dogs, trying to relax them while he brushed them. I was sitting on the left side of the dog house, and my dog was laying on the top. I set my hand down with my wrist outward to keep myself from falling off, and almost out of nowhere I heard "What is that?" I tried playing dumb and saying I didn't know what he was talking about. Later that day we went to the store and as we were walking through the store, he just kept asking me "What is it?" He knew, but he wanted me to say it. I don't know was the only answer I could give. He asked me why, I replied with a shrug. So he began to threaten me. He said that if I wouldn't tell him what and why I did it, then he was going to involve my grandparents, which scared me back then. I was ashamed and I remember that that evening my dad and I got in a fight over it because I didn't know what it was that he wanted me to say. I didn't know what the right way to explain it was.
He just told me not to do it again, and left. Actually, he said that if I didn't stop, he was going to put me on 24 hour suicide watch, and at the time that also scared me enough to stop. Or at least stop cutting my arms.
In 8th grade, I got a little bit smarter, and I started cutting my upper arms. Where my t-shirts could hide it. Back then, I was self harming only maybe once a week. Or once every few days. Only after terrible fights with my dad, or after being bullied at school. But I felt like it was unwarranted, so I tried not to do it. I made a few friend that year, and things were sort of okay for a while.
But I remember that I started adamantly hating my body at this time. My dad was a single parent raising two kids, and my brother had a lot of issues at this time. So most of the focus was on him, and I just kind of faded into the background. My dad used to go to McDonalds, Wendy's, etc. (All fast food places) and that was were we would eat most of the time. I remember eating breakfast and lunch at this time, but I would skip dinner. Or I'd eat breakfast and dinner, and skip lunch.
I really had no control over my eating back then, because I would eat whatever, whenever. I can't remember ever eating when I was actually hungry. I would eat when my dad said he was hungry, just for convenience.
Over the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I started developing my ED. My dad used to make comments about my weight or appearance to me and other people, too. Now, he claims that he doesn't remember saying any of the things I remember, but he said them. I wasn't big on exercise, because I always wanted to read. I stopped eating breakfast, I stopped eating lunch. I would only eat dinner, and that didn't bother me. Thinking back now, maybe it was an unconscious attempt to compensate for the shit I was actually eating.
But despite that, things still have continued to get worse.
In 9th grade I declined further, my self harm increased, and that was the year I attempted to overdose, though now I realize how stupid I was. Do let me note, that nobody actually knew I had tried to overdose, so it was never brought to attention that I needed help. I lied and said all the right things, all the while taking out all of my emotion on myself.
9th grade was also the first year I burned myself, intentionally. Up until then, it had only been cutting. Burning is a different kind of pain, it hurts more than cutting ever could.
I started dating my boyfriend that year too, though I didn't tell him about any of my issues. I started closing myself off from people, trusting nobody. I pretended like I was a wall of rock, and nobody could break me down. But on the other side of that wall, I was falling apart.
I had straight A's in school, and though I wasn't social, I seemed to be perfect to people around me. Again, the pride thing. Wanting people to be proud of me.
I used to go through periods too where I'd feel guilty for simply existing. Like my dad would tell me that he didn't have money for gas to take me somewhere I needed to go, or didn't have money for this or that. I never asked to go many places, so the few times I did ask and that was the answer I got - they played into my guilt. My grandparents would guilt me for wanting something, or for needing something. I never told anyone how they affected me.. I never had the strength to.
10th and 11th grades got worse. I began cutting more, hating my body more, hating the person I was. I began restricting more and more, and my depression and suicidal tendencies grew too. My grades started dropping. I remember in 10th grade, there was a math class that I had extreme difficulty with. I tried to get help, I did extra credit, I did all the things I was offered, but to no avail. Que the fights. I used to get in really bad fights with my dad over things like that, and there were more issues going on. I realize that I speak mainly of school, but that's just because that's the easiest way for me to mark time. But this is nowhere all of the things that played into what I am now.
My grandparents would start fights because I "used to be such a good student" and "now I wasn't." They would ask me what was going on, and they'd get angry with me because I was failing.
When my school found out I was cutting, they called her. When they almost discovered my ED, they called her. They called my dad. But nobody actually picked up on the fact that I needed help. They all just kind of faked concern for a bit, and then let it go. Part of that is my fault, but I was hoping they would see it, because it's not like I really worked all that hard to hide it. I did everything I could except just outright say it, and that's something I still can't bring myself to do.
I don't remember the first time I told my boyfriend about my issues. I think I told him about the fights with my dad, and how that lead to my self esteem issues. I think later he found out about the self harm from seeing my scars... and as I got closer and closer to him, I trusted him more.
I remember when he used to see the cuts on my arms, he would ask me what they were, and I'd lie feebly. He never believed me, but I don't think I wanted him to. I wanted him to see that I was struggling. I eventually told him, over time, everything else. But since then, I can't stop feeling guilt. I carry a constant guilt around that I can't shake, because I feel like an attention seeker for everything. No matter how many times he tells me that he loves me and that the only thing he wants for me is to help me and take my pain away, I can't shake the guilt. Call me stubborn, call me stupid, I honestly don't care.
I only know that the last time I trusted someone, and told them a small issue, they didn't help. They made it worse. I told them exactly what was going to happen, and they didn't believe me. They told me that they just wanted to help, and that by doing what they were doing, they were.
Almost a year later, things are back to "normal" but they aren't. I'm still hurting, worse than I was before, but at least they aren't as bad as they were at one point.
You want a picture of my life?
Probably not.
But I'll give it to you anyways.
I am still a
I'm comfortable on my own, and I pretend to everyone that I'm strong. I try to reach out when I need help, but I never actually admit how bad things are. I often downplay my issues, because I don't want to drive people away, and I'm afraid to trust them.
I've cut every day this week. At least once a day. And for the week before that. And the week before that.
I can't cry, or at least I rarely find it possible to cry, so I cut instead.
When I need my "friends" they either don't return my messages, or they say they can't be wherever I need them. But I am used to it.
I don't fight with my dad as much as I used to, but now the demons are inside of me.
I live with an Eating Disorder.
I live with Depression.
I don't have the words to say what I need to say, so I cut instead.
I'm trapped in this vicious cycle.
I hate myself for every bite of food I put in my mouth.
I could go on, but you all probably think I'm pathetic enough as it is.
My point is this:
I suffer through all of these things, and I have lived the life I have lived. You can't possibly know the depth of the pain I feel inside, nor can I know the depth of pain you feel. But my decisions are mine, and if I say that I can't deal with it anymore, then respect my decision. It's my life, and my decision to do what I will with it. I don't, never have, and never will take such a thing lightly. When I say that I literally cannot deal with it anymore, I mean it. I always say "It's okay" but for once, I'm done with the lies. It is NOT okay. It's fucking shitty, and I don't see a way out of it. I don't see a way to escape the problem, because the problem is myself. So if I choose the "easy" way out and you resent me for it - fuck off. I'm sorry to those I hurt, but this is just one battle that I can't fight any longer. I have done everything that I can do, and this is where I sit. So don't judge me, because even these words aren't enough to express what I truly want to express - but they'll have to do.
And, if anyone actually bothered to read all of that (or if anyone reads my blog at all)... Thank you. Every comment you've made on my blog has actually helped me more ways than I can express. If you read all of that, thank you for taking the time to read what I had to say, but which I could not say with words. Thank you for hearing me instead of just receiving my words. <3
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