I was tired. I was tired of caring. I was tired of doing work. I was tired of trying. I was tired of living. Each and every breath I took had resistance in it, like I had to force the air to go down through my lungs. All of the effort I put into living didn’t seem worth it anymore. Being six feet under didn’t scare me. In fact, the thought was comforting, knowing I would be able to get away from all of this pain and regret.
Once I was gone, there was no turning back. Nothing in life is permanent. Promises all end up broken. Friends fade away. Smiles disappear. The only thing permanent is death. I was ready to change everything. I was ready to give up. The endless tears pouring from my eyes, and the scars on the inside were about to go away.
I picked up the delicate razor blade, and I pressed it to my scarred wrist. I glided it along my wrist, drawing the bright red blood from my body. Seeing the blood was such a relief. I can’t exactly explain it, but seeing the destruction of my body was reassuring that it was time for me to go.
I continued this habit for several months, all the way through March of 2011. Only one person noticed, and he made a joke out of it. He said “Since when are you going emo?” I just laughed it off, as I always do. I never let anyone see my weaknesses. I kept my emotions to myself, just bottling them up within me.
The way I released these feelings was through art. The art of leaving a trail of blood on my wrists or thighs. I knew this wasn’t healthy, but what did it matter? If the physical pain took away the emotional pain, even just for a second, it seemed worth it. I don’t understand what I was feeling. I was confused. I was alone. I was scared. I was done.