I woke up one day, a fire lit inside me. One that convinced me to do what needed to be done. It made me feel as if I was ready to face what happened and make the people that caused me to get there pay for it. I was ready. And I would succeed.
Depression was a killer. It slid into me about six years ago, when I was only ten. Their tormenting and hurtful remarks dug deep into me as I struggled through my last few years of elementary school and into junior high and high school. Every time they named an imperfection I had, another piece of my self worth broke away, transforming into self hatred and feelings of hopelessness. Every time they said something that had to do with my intelligence or my appearance or my inability to find someone to lean on, I felt myself break down until I didn’t know how I was still standing. I was utterly alone in a world full of people.
The razor wasn’t introduced into my life until about two years ago. My life literally felt like it was falling apart. At least emotionally. I kept my grades up and I never mentioned anything to my parents. They wouldn’t have understood, anyways. I found the razor in my dad’s woodshed when I was digging around for tools for a school project. It laid in the drawer, glinting softly in the bad lighting. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was brand new.
At that point, I had been feeling like I was losing a grip on reality and felt as if I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I was numb. So I took the blade and I thought I’d make myself feel something.
Pain is better than nothing at all, I reasoned with myself. So I tried it once. I winced badly the first time. It did hurt, more than I could’ve ever thought. But I felt something. So I did it again. And again. It gave me life and the feeling of hope. I watched the blood run down my wrists. An emotion stirred in me, and I felt myself grow proud. I found a way to make myself feel again. And I’d do anything to keep it that way. Even if it meant pain for my body. The bodily pain I could handle. The emptiness inside I just couldn’t take anymore.
After that I wore a sweatshirt every day. I always kept my sleeves pulled down over my wrists so people wouldn’t see that I cut myself on a regular basis. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help but continue. It made me feel. I couldn’t lose that. So I just… hid it.
Shame also came with that. I caused myself harm on a daily basis and did it on purpose. I couldn’t just stop, though. Why would someone stop something that makes them feel alive again? Ironic, I suppose. The thing that was giving me ‘life’ was the thing that could cause me to die.
The tormenting continued relentlessly. Totally and utterly helpless at times, where I’d just wish I wouldn’t wake up the next morning. Jake would come up to me and shove me against the locker, my back pressed flush against the hard metal. He’d put his forearm across my throat, making it impossible for me to call out. He would hiss his words into my ear as I squirmed beneath him. I was small for my age; he towered over me. I couldn’t get away. And even if I could’ve wriggled from his grasp, Jake’s cronies made a solid barrier around me.
One day, I was in the same situation and a teacher approached. He had his coffee in one hand, steam rising from a small hole, and a stack of papers under his arm. The graying-haired man looked at us, looked me right in the eye, and continued to walk to his classroom. I knew my eyes had screamed at him, Help, I need help! Yet he walked away, with his coffee and papers, ignoring my pleas.
Sometimes I wished that it would haunt him. That he would know that he could have helped me. But no, I couldn’t wish that on anyone. Regret. That’s another pain that just doesn’t go away.
Something snapped in me that day. I was done. I climbed in the bathtub when I got home, turned on the water, and grabbed my blades out of my dresser drawer. I had gone to the hardware store a few times to get fresh ones over the two years prior. I’d let it run until it almost reached the top. I sank lower in the warm water, fully clothed, and pulled up my sleeves. I looked at my wrists, full of scars, and gripped the blade even harder. I made two deep cuts, deeper than ever before, and submerged my wrists in the water. I took a deep breath, feeling the blood seep out.
I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the life-giving fluid expand into the water. It showed me how truly pathetic I had become. I laid my head against the tile behind me and settled in. Soon I began to feel my consciousness leave me, slowly at first, until I was almost completely asleep. Soon I’ll be able to leave this torture. Soon I’ll be able to have peace.
A knock and a scream forced my eyes to crack open a little bit. I saw a blurry image of my mother standing there. Her contorted figure met my eyes as they closed again. I heard her yell out, but it slowly faded away as I fell into a deep sleep once more.
When I woke up again, I found myself in a white room. I squinted against the light, though there wasn’t much. At first I wondered if I had finally left Earth, that I was somewhere where I could be safe from Jake and from life. But as my eyes adjusted, I could see that I wasn’t in some amazing place. I was in a hospital. I grunted angrily at myself. I couldn’t even die correctly.
A confusing sense of relief crashed through me, knowing I hadn’t died. Something inside me stirred as I looked around the annoyingly white room. Something that gave me a strength I hadn’t had in a long time, if ever. Maybe it was the fact that I’d lived through my attempted suicide. Maybe it was because I really didn’t want to die. I think it might’ve been the revenge I really needed. I needed to make them feel as insignificant as I did.
I wouldn’t sink down to their level with the bullying though, oh no. I was going to make them see my pain and the hurt they’d forced me to inflict upon myself. I’d do it my own way. A way I thought would really make them see what they’d done.
I noticed something moving out of the corner of my eye. I twisted a little in my bed to see who it was. It turned out to be my mother. She was sleeping, but it appeared as if she’d been awake for a long time. There were dark bags under her eyes. I bit my lip and mentally pummeled myself.
You’re the reason she looks like that. It’s time to make another cut.
No, I argued with myself, that can’t happen. Not again.
I looked down at my wrists and studied the bandages. Again, white. For some reason, the complete whiteness of everything around me bothered me. It’s like the room was telling me to be pure, to be perfect, and to ignore the fact that this had happened. Go back to life as it was before.
I can’t, I told myself. Despite feeling the need to cut constantly, I never really wanted to do it. I didn’t want to forget that it happened either. That would always be a part of my life. I think I knew at that point that I’d always have some sort of pull towards doing it again. A constant call that I’d have to ignore every time it dared make a sound.
Mom stirred again, this time blinking her eyes open. They widened slightly when they met mine.
“Josh!” she cried, scrambling out of the uncomfortable hospital chair. She opened her arms as if to embrace me, but paused. Her expression turned from relief to concern and sadness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mom’s voice cracked as she attempted to hold off the tears.
Guilt stabbed me like a dagger in my heart. I reached out to her, tugging on an IV I hadn’t noticed before, despite the fact I had studied my wrists. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and held me close.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I mumbled into her shoulder, feeling tears creep to my eyes. I didn’t want to look weak, but I couldn’t help it. The tears slipped from their place and made wet spots on her pale blue shirt. I managed to keep the sob from bubbling out of my throat as she ran her hand over my hair.
“Oh, baby, you didn’t. I was just so worried,” she murmured, moving away a little. Mom looked at me with worried hazel eyes. “I love you, Josh.” I nodded and let a few more tears slip out.
“I know,” I croaked, laying back against the pillow. I watched her stand there for a moment and sighed. “I’m really sorry.”
That day was the day that I knew a change I had to make needed to happen soon. After about a week at the hospital that involved visit after visit with the psychiatrist, I finally got to go home. I spent another week at there and then it was finally time to go back to school.
Which brought us to the morning I woke up with courage that I’d found seemingly overnight. I knew better, though. I’d spent enough time talking to myself to know that I’d been building it up for years. As I stood in the bathroom, a look of determination came onto my face.
“You can do this, Josh,” I mumbled to myself as I ran my fingers through my brown hair. I strode downstairs and grabbed my backpack.
Today is the day, I chided myself, don’t be a wuss.
Starting my car, I pulled out of the driveway and drove down the road. School was only a few blocks away, so I steeled my expression on the drive. Be strong. You can do this.
I parked my car and walked in through the front doors. The minute I entered the building, eyes sped to me. The person owning them would then turn around and whisper to their friends. Every step I took along the loud, typical high school hallway illiciated whispers from my classmates. Pretending to keep the voices low, though I knew they did it to taunt me over and over with words that I knew would be spoken.
“That’s Josh Brinley. You know, the suicidal one.”
“Isn’t that him?”
“Look who’s alive.”
Or my personal favorite: “Why isn’t he in a mental institution? What if he like, flips out or something?”
I ignored them, pulling my sweatshirt down over my hands. My fingers went into a fist, the only thing that could show I was bothered by the taunts.
Their eyes stared at my wrists, though they were covered up by my sweatshirt. They still tried, despite the fact. I tugged down on the sleeve even more and continued to walk down the hall. I knew exactly where I was going.
Jake and his friends all stood there together, as always. His eyes darkened dangerously when he saw me coming.
“Josh Brinley lives,” Jake greeted me as I stopped in front of them. I gave a low chuckle in response.
“Yeah. Here I am.” He took one step and looked at me. For the first time in the past years, I noticed I wasn’t as scrawny as I had been. I could almost make eye contact with him without having to tip my head up. I took a deep breath and blew it out noiselessly. I moved my left hand to my right arm and held it there. Jake hadn’t seem to notice.
“So, Blade,” he said, his eyes icy and cold, matching his tone, “I’m surprised you’re here.”
I didn’t do anything. I took another silent deep breath, again trying to steel my emotions. The walk down the hallway was a little more exhausting than I had initially thought it would have. I slowly lifted up my sweatshirt sleeve, and, in a moment of daring, brought it quickly to his face. Jake’s expression changed from one of mocking to one of shock, before settling on a cocky look.
“Nice slices you have there.”
“You did this to me,” I said, my voice low and tight, “You pushed me over the edge, made me hurt myself.” Jake attempted to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes grew wider with minor shock. It encouraged me to continue. “You and your friends put me the situation where I felt helpless and alone. I was gone from who I used to be. You might have well been holding the razor and cutting into my skin.” My voice crescendoed as anger flared through me.
The hallway had gone silent. There were no more murmurs or whispers. It was just my voice. And then I heard footsteps approaching. I turned my head to get a look at who was coming. It was a teacher.
But not just a teacher. The teacher. The one who’d seen me that day. He stopped in his tracks, noticing finally who I was. Remorse and regret flashed through his expression. The man moved back and inclined his head just a little, as if to say, Do what you need to do. I blinked at him, not having the need to respond.
I turned my attention back to Jake. His friends just stood there, appearing as shocked I was sure he felt.
“You put me in the hospital, really. You made me feel worthless, like I wasn’t someone that should be around. I hope that you realize that. And I hope you change your ways. So there isn’t another suicide attempt in the school. Or worse, a successful one. You don’t want that, right?”
He slowly shook his head, fear seeming to cut off his ability to speak. “Good.”
I moved my wrist away from his face and reached over to pull up my other sleeve. Both sets of my scars were fully on display. No one made any noise, but I could see the shock on their faces.
I walked away from Jake and his friends, turning a bit to see their faces contorted into looks of confusion, fear, and maybe even a little respect.