This is from someone who still hasn’t found a way out– I hope she does. So Aeondra, and anyone else out there who feels like her… I hope you know that your life DOES mean something, and that you ARE important. I feel like anything I say will sound cliché and untrue… but I hope you know that you are not alone, and that life WILL get better, even if it seems hard to believe right now. Soon, you will find out exactly who you are, and what it is you are meant to be doing.
Aeondra’s story also brings up the issue of counceling. Many of the cutter’s I’ve know– both on and offline, view counseling as something negative. And yes, on the outside, sharing your life with someone you don’t know and who is getting payed to talk to you may seem absolutly invasive and futile. For me, however, therapy was very important; it still IS important, whenever I have a crisis. Perhaps it is not for everyone… but I think that one of the reasons people cut is because they need to vent out, to manifest their internal pain in an external way, it is a way to defeat anxiety. For me, that is what therapy was about: venting out. Putting into words what I would like to carve into my skin. It may not have a practical purpose… but, if you think about it, cutting doesn’t either.
There are still times when I feel like my life doesn’t mean anything. I still consider suicide as an answer to my problems. I still cut occasionally but I’m trying to stop. Honestly, the only reason that I’m still living is for other people; the people that I love. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone or anything. Committing suicide would only hurt the people closest to me. That is the worst thing that I could do.
I’m fourteen years old, almost fifteen. I had fallen into depression about a year ago when I had discovered that I had been assaulted by a 50 year old male. He had been my music teacher. It hurt me since I was already in bad shape as it was and I had really trusted him; everyone had. I had slipped up because I had trusted other peoples’ judgments. It wouldn’t happen again.
School life wasn’t going well, all of my friends weren’t really friends, they were merely acquaintances. Part-time friends. I was afraid to be who I really was and my personality was muffled. Soon, I stopped talking to people and began to drift away, becoming anti-social and depressing to be around. I was silent most of the time and sat in corners. I was not trying to attract attention, but rather just the opposite. But as most things happen to me, the teachers noticed things. They asked me what was wrong and I refuted all accusations and changed the subject. I kept everyone in the dark until February.
All winter, I lived my life in my room. I kept the door closed and listened to headphones, trying to block out the world and return to my imaginary refuge. Soon, I resorted to cutting, starting shallow and working my way deeper. Being naïve, I cut on my wrist and lower arm, but wore long sleeves. At times, I ran into the dilemma of P.E. class in which I simply wrapped it in a bandage and faked temporary injury even though the real injury was far from temporary. In fact, I still have scars to remind me what it felt like.
It was the morning of February 14, Valentine’s Day, when my parents saw them. They dismissed my younger brother from the table and gave me a speech about how scared they were of me and that they wanted me to go to counseling. I had to go over the entire story while I left out most of the story because either they were personal secrets or I honestly didn’t know why. They watched me closely the next few months, but I managed a few episodes behind their backs. It was becoming a habit instead of a chore.
I have no problem mutilating myself. It’s one of my main flaws. I was caught once more in March, but at that point it didn’t matter. My parents forced me to go to counseling and wouldn’t let me go into my room until it was bedtime which made me all the more angry. It was the second time I had gone and I still didn’t like it. I pretended to like the counselor and lied most of the time. I wasn’t going to tell a complete stranger my secrets. The last time I had done that and put my trust in someone, it had ended catastrophically. Then a good thing happened. I was accepted into a boarding high school.
I pretended that I was enjoying every single day of the summer before school, but really, I was dying to get away. I didn’t care how bad it was there, it couldn’t have been as tormenting as it was at home.
I started school and hated the school but loved the people. I couldn’t leave now that I’ve made so many friends. I’d roomed with the best girls I’d ever met and it all worked out. I became friends with most of the teachers especially my English teacher. I could tell her anything and she would be able to take it without flipping out on me like everyone else that I knew did. She became my best friend. Soon, I realized that she was a teacher who was married, had a home and another life and I was only a minor part. I realized that I had to back out of her life because I was taking up too much of her time even though she insisted that she loved talking to me. I didn’t believe her. I hadn’t believed anyone who said that I was beautiful or funny or intelligent or great because they were just wasting their time. Ever since early childhood, I’d never been able to take compliments because I thought they were just trying to say it to be nice. My life seemed to be a big lie.
I began cutting again. It felt good. Like oxygen flowing into air-deprived lungs. I found that even though I was learning and loving, the school made you into an non-emotional robot. I didn’t have the ability to cry. I was tearless while I cut my thighs in the dorm bathroom. After I was finished, I ran outside to cry but realized that the one tear that fell dried up almost as soon as it left my eye. Just like me, shriveled and dry, with no life left, just an empty shell.
So here I am, not knowing what I’m going to do with my life, whether I’m going to throw it all away or keep it for the good of others. I would much rather feel pain than nothing at all because at least that would prove to myself that I’m still real and not a ghost of the past.
- Aeondra
