School. It was endless and tormenting. High school was a whole different place. It was harder trying to not give a shit about anything, because everything mattered there. Your weight, bra size, hair color, smile, everything. Nothing could be hidden.
Still, like in middle school, I didn’t put in the effort to look good. I would often wear my ratty old purple sweatshirt with old jeans or sweat pants. My hair would be up in a sloppy bun. People would look at me funny, wondering why I didn’t even try. I’d just shrug it off and say make up wasn’t my thing, or I felt uncomfortable in nice clothes, but I longed to be one of the pretty thin girls.
It was my dream. If I was one of those girls who walked into school with a flawless face, stylish clothes, and a bright smile, I might be happy. But I wasn’t one of those girls. I was me. And there was no way to change that.
Months went by, and I am going to avoid getting into too much further detail about them because they were like any other month. Depressive, and full of cutting and suicidal thoughts.
Things happened in those months, including be sexually assaulted, and trying to commit suicide again. I don’t want to go into detail about either of those things, but they really changed me. I felt even more hideous than I did before, and I felt powerless. My words meant nothing. “No” didn’t mean a thing, apparently. He didn’t care. He just did what he wanted, thinking nothing was wrong. It wasn’t fair.
After all of this occurred, I was still depressed, obviously. I would cut more than I had used to. In the year prior, (it was now January of 2012) I would leave about ten-thirty cuts at a time. Now, I would cut myself at least a hundred times before stopping.
I would always blame the blood on my sheets as nose bleeds. It seemed like a rather innocent excuse, and it was somewhat true. I did have nose bleeds on a regular basis, so it was a good cover up. It was also winter, so I had a reason to wear long sleeves and pants all the time. It just seemed normal to everyone.
The months flew by, and eventually, it was April. April eighth, to be exact. The one year anniversary of my attempted suicide. I tried to go through that day with a smile, so everyone would think I was better. I even fooled myself for a day or two, but in reality, I was still a mess. I guess my fake smile was working on me, too.