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Meg

Lost & Found

Copyright Meg

When I stop to think about it, I’ve been hurting myself for as long as I can remember. I remember being a kid, maybe nine (I’ve noticed depression has a way of clouding time), and sitting in the backseat of the car, pulling out my hair and eyelashes. My mom just thought it was an allergic reaction to something, and I didn’t correct her. When I got older, I realised what a loser I was, and tried to put up with kids tormenting me. They dumped water on my textbooks, broke all the pencils in my desk, and defaced my personal books. For a bookworm, the latter was one of the most horrible things to happen. I guess it sounds stupid that it hurt so bad, but it really did. It tore into me, and brought me to tears everyday when I got home from school. I didn’t have any friends, and the other people in the class liked to make up things to call me, and insults about myself and my family. I felt like all I had for comfort were my two wonderful dogs, Molly and Jasmine. They were both older than me, and growing up a loner, animals were always easier to relate to. When I lost them, my world crumbled. I suppose this sounds silly to people who don’t get attached to animals, but for me, it was devastating. No friends, no dogs, no books any more, and a lot of shame. I didn’t want to tell me mom, because I was afraid she would be embarrassed to have such a disappointment for a daughter. Who wants to be the parent of a kid who gets picked on; has glue poured on her seat, and eraser shavings sprinkled in her lunch?

That was 6th grade, and I wanted to make the inner pain go away. I remember grinding my nails into my skin, and being mesmerised when I saw blood bubble at the surface. From there, I moved on to scissors, safety pins, eraser burns, candle wax burns, and glass and rock rubbings.

In 9th grade, one of the few friends I had turned his back on me, for something that I had said, and was to dense to realise that it had been mean and stupid. I was so angry at myself, I could feel the blood boiling in my head. When I got home, my addiction started. I hacked away at my skin with a razor, and cried as quietly as I could force myself. I faintly remember passing out for a short while, as I have small veins. Guess I’ve built that up or something since then. I’m now seventeen, a high school dropout, and failure, and a cutter. I wish I could know what my life would be like now if I had made better choices, but then, I can’t imagine not being a blade addict. I have so many scars, and I hate them, yet, I can’t picture myself without them. It’s as if they are there to torment me, and to seduce me.

And it seems no matter what, nothing helps. I have been on so many drugs to ‘help’ me, but they only make it worse. My eating habits are strange now. Sometimes I eat tons of food a day, and other times, I go without anything. I don’t know if anyone else feels the same way, but I feel insulted when someone says I’m getting too skinny, and other times, I feel encouraged to lose more weight. I just wish there was a foolproof way to cure all of us. We don’t want to be cured, though. That is a fact I have come to see. We want to be scar and cut free, and yet we wish nothing more than to continue our self-therapy.

Wow, this is quite the page. I didn’t mean to continue so much. I’ve probably bored you, but at least this has helped me. I know how I feel a bit more now. So I wish the best for all of you. You’re always in my heart, so don’t feel so alone. I know it’s hard, but please try. Try to live, and try to remember that you’re never alone. Cry, and cut if you need to. Just don’t give up. We love you.

 

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