Things in my head began to change, once again. After an attempt at speaking to my birth family, I realized that they weren’t the answer I was searching for. In fact, the answer wasn’t to be found in others at all. It was to be found in my blood.
I had used my nails to scratch my body up. I slid them along my arms and wrists, barely breaking the skin. Yes, it was very minor, but everything starts with one little step. All that the scratches left were some faint red lines, that lasted only for minutes.
At first, seeing the little marks on my skin was satisfying, but after a while, it just wasn’t enough. I needed more pain to repay for the pain I caused others.
The next day, someone at school made a comment about the bruise on my left arm. I shrugged and told them I had gotten into a fight. They just laughed like it was some kind of joke. But it wasn’t. I was in a fight with myself.
To most people, I was in a lose lose situation. To me, it was a win win situation. As long as I was causing my terrible self pain, I was winning. When the pain was caused and marks were left, I was content. The hitting and punching became addicting. Seeing the bruises all over my monstrosity of a body made me so happy, knowing that I am finally getting some of what I deserve.
Just like the scratching, the bruises got old. I had moved on to more drastic forms of harming myself. I would take a belt or scarf, and wrap it around my neck and pull it as tight as I possibly could, cutting off my breathing. It felt so unreal, but tragically beautiful. I thought I had control of myself, but it was the exact opposite. My hands wouldn’t stop pulling the belt around my neck. No matter how hard I tried to let go, my hands simply wouldn’t release the belt.
This is when I discovered my true fate.