I’m sitting in one of the four corners in my room with my knees drawn up against my chest, looking at the knife in my hand. What would happen if I took my life, right now? There might be some people sad to lose me, but not a lot. I’d easily be forgotten, just another teen lost to suicide.
Tears stream down my face as I contemplate the ending of my life. I don’t want to do it. I’d give anything to feel well again, but everyday feels like the day before. Every day is like the spin cycle on a washer machine. It keeps going around and around without any variety. I’m not doing anything with myself. Sure, I go to school, but I’m failing. I have friends, but I’m just going through the motions. My dad is constantly on my case; my stepmom is ridiculous, and my little sister…everything I’m not.
I hold the blade to my wrist and I do it…
No, I didn’t commit suicide. I cut my wrist like I had done plenty of times before. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to end it at that moment. After a while I finally realized I needed help. So, I told on myself. I got help, I joined a group, and I stopped cutting. That sounds easy, but it was a journey. It took time and patience and the willingness.
If my father knew I was depressed, that I was cutting, he never showed any signs. He never asked if I was okay. Part of what led to my depression was the vibe he gave off to me all the time. It was like a warning vibe. That feeling always kept me from telling him how I felt. I wish I could of told him how angry I was, how heavy my heart felt on a daily basis, and how much I wished he loved me enough to care. My depression was my armor against the emotional onslaught I received every day.
One of the reasons my father’s negativity towards me affected me so bad was because when I was younger, I was his baby girl. I was his pride and joy. I could do nothing wrong. It’s too bad it did not stay that way.
Another reason my depression worsened was because I didn’t have any motivation. I didn’t have anybody pushing me, telling me to get up and do something with myself. When I woke up in the morning, it was with dread. That was the saddest thing of all.
I idolized my father when I was younger. At least until I was sixteen. Before, everything my father did was right. He definitely could do no wrong. He was my god in a way. I never questioned him. I looked to him with blind faith. I couldn’t tell you when my eyes finally cleared and I saw him for the controlling person he was.
At this point, I felt like I had nothing to lose. So, I take my life, then what? Well, because of my religion, I’d say I would be in hell. What would that mean for the people still alive? Would someone mourn me? I’m curious as to who would be there after I was dead. Maybe that’s why I did not do it. I wanted to see their faces when they found me. I felt a grim satisfaction thinking my father would find me. He’d be the one to see my body first and wonder why I did it. I honestly believe he did not know I was depressed or that anything was