“People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.
When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.”
“A little respect” that’s all I’m asking for. I don’t want you to pity me. that’s not what I need. I need you to respect me. Me. As a person. Respect that I’ve experienced things that even adults have troubles handling. I’m not a weirdo, I’m me. My life is a mess. I’m trying to clean up. It takes time, effort. I want to do it but it doesn’t seem possible. I just don’t have the energy. I want to curl up in a ball and die (not literally). I can’t make friends, and the ones I have I’m afraid will leave me. Nothing has meaning anymore. Tomorrow seems soooo far away. Why couldn’t it be me. Me that died saving others. Others have value, I don’t. My school counselor tells me that it’s all in my head. I’m the one who’s the problem. I’m to blame for this mess. The best part is that I was willing to believe her until some classmates of mine told me that they were soooo ashamed that the school hadn’t done anything about the bullying, because they HAD told them about it.
Schools are supposed to help us, not give us promises that they can’t fulfil. Schools are supposed to say “we have a student whose been having some troubles. Let’s find out what it’s about”. Not give us promises that they can’t fulfil and probably don’t want to. If we say something that concerns them they are supposed to act on it not just sweep it under the rug and forget about it. IT’S NOT DISAPERING. It’s a big decision to tell you teachers how you feel, and then they “forget” you afterwards. I thought they were professionals, many of them have stories themselves, but they can’t catch a student! I don’t get it. It can’t be the first time that they see a student on “deep water”. I wish I didn’t feel like this but I do. I know it’s not their problem, but everywhere I turn I’m forgotten. I HATE feeling like this, but like you know it isn’t a switch. I can’t just not feel like this.
Bullying isn’t ok. Self harm should not be practiced in school. Teachers should notice if a student wears excessive clothes when its warm outside. Some of us have stories of our own. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” they say judging. Its not right..
“In case you didn’t know, dead people don’t bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you’re alive. It’s irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.”
Is it to much to ask for a little respect?