I found a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol I had from when I went to camp. I started reading the label, and it said that you should not take more than eight in a day.
I took nine.
Hours later, nothing had happened like I expected. I still felt the same, not even a bit nauseated. I honestly expected to be dead by then. I didn’t realize how hard this would be. My hopes went down to a point lower than they were before.
“You mess everything up! You can’t even kill yourself, you failure!” my mind screamed at me. “Take some more, maybe this time you won’t screw up.”
I decided I would try again next weekend, as it was a Sunday night that I first attempted. I didn’t want to have to go into school feeling sicker than I already had if I didn’t succeed again.
I guess I should probably mention that throughout all of these different things I did to try to escape, they all continued. I didn’t stop them, I just piled more things onto the list. The more I destroyed myself, the more comforted I was by the thoughts. Knowing that the problems weren’t just in my head anymore, and were on my body as well, made me feel better somehow.
It seemed that if the physical scars matched the emotional ones, it was okay to be like this. It would give me a reason to be so depressed and broken. It was an explanation to the tears and blood to me.
I knew I had problems, I just didn’t think they were big enough.
There were people out there with scars all over their arms, and mine were just a few little and faded ones.
There were people out there who you could count the ribs on, but you sure couldn’t count mine.
There were people out there covered in bruises, but mine were light.
I was constantly comparing myself to others. If the people worse off than me didn’t get help, then why should I?
I had decided that it was okay if I was completely destroyed. I even wanted to be. It didn’t matter to me. Not one tiny bit. Seeing the scars didn’t phase me at all. It was just normal for me to look down at my arms, and see the faint red lines running up them.
Nothing seemed wrong because it had become my typical behavior. It was just a natural reaction to when someone said something mean, I got in trouble, or even something as simple as thinking about my biological family.
I had felt that all their problems were my fault, that I was a screw up. I was simply punishing myself for all of my mistakes. Nothing more, nothing less.