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NotoriousDIU

Copyright, NotoriousDIU

Inevitable. That’s the way I felt. And I hated it. I was 12 years old, the guy I liked had fallen for someone else, I didn’t have anyone I could deem a “friend”. So I found myself a friend, someone who could make me feel better and release my sorrow. I found myself a knife.

The first time I cut, my intention was to die. Naturally, using the serrated edge of a kitchen knife got me virtually nowhere.

In the beginning, I only cut when I was angry, or hurting. I cut because releasing the pain inside and bringing it out in the form of blood was the best way to release myself from the chains of self-hate.

Eventually, pain became an addiction. I found myself cutting more and more often, going deeper, loving the surging blood. I felt absolved from all the bad feelings, as if I had made everything alright.

In between my obssession with slitting my skin, suicide attempts flirted with my life. I overdosed, tried to strangle myself, breathed unnaturally for an hour; I tried everything. My parents remained oblivious to what went on behind closed doors.

I planned a sleeping pills overdose for the day we had our school Geography field trip. I would buy the pills during free time, then take them, go to school, and die. But my actions came known to a teacher, and I was outed. Shattered. They knew. And I hated them for it. But most of all, I hated the way everyone thought I wanted attention.

It made me lie down every night crying, and ever since then I have never trusted another person like I have before. I look at the people around me and see the word “traitor” written across their foreheads.

This January, I overdosed again. My parents found out, and I was brought to the hospital. They found out about everything; my self-injury, my past suicide attempts. I’ve lost control of everything I once had. I have nothing left.

SI had been the way I released the hurt inside, it had been the only thing I had to control. Now I am in danger of being placed in the psychiatric ward if I hurt myself again.

What I once had under control has spiralled down into something that I have allowed to slip through my fingers. I have nothing left.

She Cries Red

I took the blade to my own skin
I felt relief from deep within
Gone were all my sins and fears
I bled instead of crying tears.

Update

Yesterday, the devil inside of me broke loose. The triple-bladed angry red contrasts painfully with the whiteness of my lower abs.

My life is an emotional see-saw, with endless ups and downs, but hard times have thrown me into a bleak depression, one which continually merges with my evanescent joy.

I have come a full revolution on the wheel of life — I’ve relapsed. My mind is diluted with suicidal thoughts and my neck has already burned twice this month from the unsuccessful attempts with a noose. Saved in “My Favorites” folder is a site labelled “Successful Suicide Methods”.

I’m so dead inside. I died the day the little 8 year old girl stepped over to the edge of the balcony, tensed her muscles, ready to jump. My spirit flew down and crashed even though my physical being didn’t.

I’m 3 months shy of my 15th birthday, yet it shocks me to know I am still breathing, still living — the one thing for which I grudge so much contempt.

I can’t wait till the day I die. Death is the inevitable — you cannot stop something that has no brakes.

The date is not yet decided, but I shall know when the time comes for me to fling away the burdens which have for so long bore me to this earth.

I know how I shall end this pain, the plan is the only clear thing in my mind.

Finally… I shall be free.

 

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