I have so much sadness in me, I can barely breathe. Like, something inside me just snapped.. broke. And I can’t repair it. Many years ago, when teachers at school asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I told them I want to be a writer, later I wanted to be a teacher. Now I want to be death.
And everything sucks because I tried, I tried so freakin’ hard and nothing I ever did was enough.. not for me, not for anyone.
And now I don’t cut, my cuts have been healed and my scars are fading… but my problems, and problems I have with myself are still not fixed.
People can’t possibly imagine how much I hate myself.
I started to cut when I was seven. It was a small cut, like those paper cuts you get once in a while. I don’t even know how I got it, I just… I was afraid of blood you see, every time someone accidentally fell or something and I saw just a little blood I would faint. But when I saw my blood, I wasn’t scared. Because it felt good. I cried before I got the cut, my mom was screaming at me because I wasn’t being friendly to the girl who kicked me under the table anytime she got the chance. And when I got the cut, my feelings… the sadness… it evaporated. Disappeared.
I smiled that day.
A few weeks later, someone pointed a scar on my hand. I got scared, what if they tell my parents, I thought to myself. So I went to the barn, sat in the large pile of hay we kept there for the horses and I cried. I promised myself that I will never hurt myself again, even if it made the bad feeling go away.
That day, my mom asked me what is the meaning of that scar. And I told her, "Don’t you remember that one time I fell on a piece of glass? I got it because of that! Cool, hm?" She said yes, and then told me that scars aren’t cool, but they’re ugly.
"Watch out, and take care of yourself or no boy would marry you."
I was scared of that truth. No one to love me, no one to care about me. But as I got older and I started to see the change between me and other kids I… just kinda accepted it.
But I started to cut again.
And it always left that nice empty feeling in me. You know it, no? The bad empty feeling that makes you choke with hurt, but there is a nice empty feeling too. The feeling that actually let’s you feel nothing. I love that feeling.
Than I realized that I’m asexual… and I was ashamed. I was feeling like an alien. Wrong. Broken. My friends made me feel these things. They made me go to dates, talk to people that looked scary. Because I was strange to them. What kind of 15 year old girl never kissed? Isn’t it crazy? Aren’t you frigid? Did you go to the doctor? Are you just faking it? Do you hate kissing? Do you hate touch? Why do you always flinch when I try to touch your hand? What are you hiding? Tell me, tell me, tell me,… or I tell your parents that you’re acting strange and they will do something! Maybe they will force you to talk with psychiatrist! Or a psychologist! You’re messed up in the head!
A few years later my parents found out that I cut, and even now, sometimes they still discreetly check my wrists. But they never check my hips.. or my tights.
And that’s okay.
Because maybe… maybe I wasn’t meant to be saved, anyway.
(I’m sorry for spamming too much with my rants.. I’ll stop.)