It felt incredible. I'd wished so long to have this guy back in my life and just when I'd given up completely, he'd returned. What was more, my friends and I were closer than we'd ever been.
Matt and I met up again. My work at school was fantastic. Two days after we met, Matt walked again. My world fell apart for the second time.
I spiralled slowly downhill. My friends, in their best efforts, raised only a brave smile from me. My arms became maps of scars and fresh cuts.
I am worthless. Who could love someone like this? My friends are only there because they're scared of making me worse. They pity me, they don't really care. Why should they? Matt's gone. They'll disappear soon enough. All I do is cause worry for them. All I do is hurt them. They're better off without me.
It became my mantra. They're better off without me. Without me. And if I couldn't have Matt, I couldn't have my friends, I wanted no one.
Six weeks later, what felt like a miracle.
Matt says: Hey, are you okay?
Almost instantly, the weight of misery that had been slowly picking away at my sanity lifted again. Relief however, was far from permanent. It was a long way from the blissful relationship we had once enjoyed.
Me: Matt and I are fighting again :'(
Stephen: Why am I not surprised?
It became a common theme. Though these fights were not a few nasty words. Every harsh word from him cut deep into my being, leaving me crippled with tears.
January rolled around. I had made it to AS exams. Twice I had attempted to give up my 'addictions'. Matt was still there. I'd become his emotional punch bag. When something happened, I knew we would fight, bitterly. And yet, I never could walk away. A particularly vicious fight had me reeling. I took up the razorblade again, to the dismay of everyone close to me.
Me: I'm sorry! At least this way I can function.
Stephen: You're better than this.
The shame that I needed it merely made me cut more. I walked into each exam with my arms throbbing. I'd spent the time before cramming, shut away into a toilet cubicle, cursing under my breath as blood splattered my revision notes.
Unsurprisingly, the results left a lot to be desired. I was surrounded by concerned faces. I needed help, that was abundantly clear.
"Shit, what happened to your arms?!"
Fuck. "Gardening accident" Fake smile.
"..You have a lot of gardening accidents"
It was a bleak compromise. I would maintain stories to explain away the cuts to everyone. I would go out with friends, laugh like nothing was wrong, go home and find the most healed part of skin to slice up again. I would log on to my computer to receive the messages that inevitably led to me shedding more blood. More tears. All the while, Stephen maintained a strength I couldn't manage, holding my fractured mind together.
It seemed like everything had gone into meltdown. It took a snide comment to turn it around.
Fuck you! What the fuck gives you the right? You have NO FUCKING IDEA! I'll show you fucking pathetic.