Pain and Anger

Something I was feeling a while ago and put into words.

 

She hated her life, and she hated a good majority of the people around her. She had a father that wasn't there for her and constantly forgot about her and a mother who loved her but didn't know how to deal with a child with depression. She had been spoiled and babied, and while it had seemed nice and well at the time, it only stunted her emotional growth. She expected to get anything and everything she wanted, whether they had the money or not didn't matter. At first it was only material things, but eventually she expected to get what she wanted in every aspect of life, and when she didn't she was unsure of what to do.

On the outside her life looked good, maybe even perfect to some. She had an amazing boyfriend, a great group of friends, both parents alive and loved her, two adorable pets, and pretty much any toys or gadgets she could ever want. None of it mattered to her, though. She got in horrible fights with her boyfriend, her friends didn't understand, she fought with her mom and never saw her dad, and no amount of materialistic things in this world could stomp out the pain she felt every day of her life.

She used to look at the girls in magazines with articles about how they cut themselves, or hurt themselves in some way, and think “why would anyone do that?” But then one day, she became one of those girls. No, she wasn't in a magazine or anything, but she began cutting. It wasn't an everyday thing, and could have been much worse, but the point was that she was purposely hurting herself; that was enough wasn't it? Not for her dad, he said she wasn't a cutter, because a real cutter would hurt themselves worse and do it more often. His comments like that made her get more serious about her cutting. Originally it started out as scratching with nails, then scratching with tacks, and then eventually trying to cut with the nails, and when that didn't work, she moved on to using her razor. She loved being in control of all the pain she felt for once, and she enjoyed watching herself bleed. I cannot stress enough just how much she loved watching herself bleed, it was ecstasy for her, a sick form of entertainment that made her feel good and horrible at the same time. She would just sit in her locked bathroom staring down at her arm, watching the blood, feeling the sting, and smile an evil smile. Then she would break down into a flood of tears realizing what she had done. Weeks later when the scars were still there she would feel ashamed, but as soon as they were gone she was back at the razor again. She desperately wished that she had the courage to just finish it all, to slide the sharp blade against her wrists and sink into the darkness never to come back. She had tried pills, probably never enough to kill her, but she didn't know because twice she got caught.

A part of her wished that her parents would see how serious it was and put her in a hospital, nothing else was working. None of the medications worked for very long periods of time, and the therapy got repetitive and pointless, so she stopped going. She continued with the medicine, praying that eventually she would see some sort of glimmer of light, or anything other than the darkness that enveloped even her happiest moments. She gave up hope, and eventually gave up faith too. Maybe there was a reason she was going through this, but she didn't care anymore, she just wanted it done, whatever it took. Eighteen years of life, and only the first half had been good. The rest had been a living hell. She wanted so badly to give up on life, but she couldn't, and she'd probably never be able to. So she bowed her head and cried until there were no more tears, and then she cried some more. At one point the tears just wouldn't come anymore, no matter how much she hurt there was also a sense of being numb along with it, and she couldn't cry. It all just stayed inside, bottled up, boiling, until eventually she would snap and cry, and then the whole thing would happen again.

What was the point in being alive? She had no affect on anyone's life, and she didn't enjoy living. She hated living and desperately wanted God to just take her. Why couldn't he do that much for her? Jesus suffered but in the end He got to die and go to Heaven, why couldn't she?

She searched for a meaning in her life, anything that made this life worth it. She thought writing would be that for her, but she couldn't think of a single thing to write, and she just started hurting more and getting angrier and angrier. She exploded into tears and wished that everything around her, except maybe music, would just stop or disappear or something, anything, to make her better. Or less overwhelmed. Or whatever.

Reviews

[Paul Wallace]

Wow. That blew my mind in a way. Very good! Keep writing!