Feeling No Emotions

A memoir of my 6th-7th grade life, struggles through depression and suicidal tendencies, family issues, and trust issues.

  Feeling No Emotions

I used to always try to be empathetic and feel what others felt. I wanted to act appropriately when any situation was brought to me. With that in mind, I would try to feel what it would be like if I had mental illnesses such as depression, schizophrenia, psychosis, etc. There were few things I didn't acknowledge or think about. It wasn't a problem, for situations with those illnesses would rarely pop up. It never came to me, though, that I wouldn’t have to act in order for me to experience what it was like to have an illness.

I constantly felt as if I was sinking into a pit of nothingness. My chest compressed as my head raced with thoughts. I noticed my breathing and realized that I could hardly ever take any more than half a breath. I was continuously shaking and couldn’t seem to stop. There were voices in my head that weren’t bad to me, for they would explain things I didn't quite understand. Although, they did make me feel bad by making fun of me all the time. Though I didn't feel normal, every day, I smiled and laughed like a normal human being. Behind that appearance, I wanted to bash my head against the corner of a square pole, continuously, and watch the blood drip down my face as I blacked out. It would feel nice to be unconscious. I felt blank. I wanted to get high to the point that I became numb. Getting high would take all my worries away and store them in a box for some time, making me feel like I was on top of the world. With that done, I may have a chance to clear my mind and enjoy myself for a while. I wanted to do these things because I felt terrible all the time and couldn’t shake the feeling off of me. Feeling that way caused me to come to the conclusion that the only way to rid that awful emotion was to die. It didn't seem all that bad, for it really wasn't that big of a deal to me. It was just a way out, a shortcut, taking me away from reality. I mean, what was the point of living if you’re going to die anyway?

I first observed this feeling when I stopped homeschooling, though I then realized I had felt this way for years. It was in the 6th grade when I was 12, I felt tired, empty even, and I didn't want to try to do anything. Bad thoughts would arouse in my mind to haunt me and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. This used to be a constant feeling of misery, but the feeling eventually developed into waves. When the feeling came to me in this developed form, it felt as if it was attacking me. I always felt I had to curl up into a ball in a corner and cry. The only thing I could do was try to ignore them and move along. People would always fake mental illnesses for attention as if it was something you could play around with. I knew about this, so it didn't stop me from feeling like what I was feeling was for attention. At home, my parents were getting a divorce. When they first announced it, my sisters were crying and my brother was cracking jokes to try to cheer everyone up. Although, I felt nothing. It was like I saw it coming. Throughout the year, there were so many bullies I had to deal with. They would make fun of me for the way I dressed and for the things I liked. Some would hit me or trip me often. I would get scrapes and bruises appearing on my chest. There was so much going on at one time, I didn't know what to do. 

Summer eventually came, and I hadn’t been getting any better. I had stabbed my legs with pencils until it was bleeding and I started punching my body until there were bruises as a way to cope and better my feelings. Though, gradually, the effect faded away. In the middle of summer, punching myself had grown ineffective. My thoughts were getting worse and cluster headaches, also known as suicide headaches, came over me. These types of headaches have known to be the most painful headaches there is. It felt as if there were wrecking balls slamming into my head and wouldn’t stop for weeks. It was painful, and most of the time I would bang my head against the wall to try to stop it from hurting. I was getting worse, and I didn't know how to deal with it, so, I snuck into the garage to find a rope. Hanging myself would fix my cluster headaches. I felt no emotions. The feeling of the rope tied tight around my neck was all I could think about. I hated the world we live in. I had found a rope with the colors yellow, green, and red. The rope was quite long, and I was worried it wouldn’t hold my 114lb body, for I may have been too heavy for a .5in rope to hang a body on. I decided to use it anyway. I was able to carry it to my room without anyone noticing and thread it through the grid of the bottom of my sister’s bunkbed. It took a few minutes, but YouTube was successful at teaching me how to tie a noose. Through Snapchat, I had sent out a suicide message to my close ‘friends’; although I felt no attachment to them in any way, I felt like they should’ve known what happened to me. I had written the letter earlier that week and criticized myself with every word I wrote. The phrasing had to come through to them on how I was feeling. When I sent it to my ‘friends’, they all started questioning me. “What do you mean?” “So… what exactly are you doing?” “I’m confused”. Only two people somewhat understood, but one of them blamed themselves. I guess I wasn't able to make them understand my actual feelings. It hurt a little, but I didn't care too much. I felt I couldn’t spend another second alive with this emotion placed on me. I placed the rope around my neck and stepped off the rolly-chair I was on while pushing it away from me. If I had known hanging myself would’ve taken so long, I would’ve jumped off a building, although, it felt good to finally have something to complain about. I liked the feeling of the blood not making its way to my head, causing it to feel dizzy. I was dizzy to the point where I couldn’t focus on anything. It was as if I was getting sucked into a black hole, and at any minute, I would be torn to shreds. I went on relieved that I was finally able to let my pain go. After one or two minutes, my sister walked in. If I had locked the door, it would’ve made things much easier. My face was purple and my veins were bulging, but I didn't care. I had my hood on, and I managed to tell her that it only looks like I’m hanging myself because it’s an illusion and that it was a trick I had found on Instagram. She agreed and thought it was convincing, then left, and I was so close to making it, but then something somehow stopped me. The windows were open and my friend was staring at me. Staring back at him, I blacked out. When I woke up, I was on the ground. Even now, I still don't know what exactly happened. Nobody knew about the situation, either.

Early morning the next day, I was admitted as an inpatient at Sun Behavioral Health, a mental and substance abuse hospital. I spent two weeks there, and I did not want to go home. I was afraid of how people would treat me, plus, how my parents would deal with me would probably be different, too. I was hospitalized over the 4th of July, one of my favorite holidays, and I felt like everyone forgot about me during that period of time. Everybody was living their life as if nothing happened. Of course, I wanted them to forget about what happened, but at the same time, I felt left out and forgotten. One night, I woke up screaming in the middle of a nightmare. In the dream, part of my family was in the car and we were about to get into a car crash. My roommate was concerned, nevertheless, we didn't talk about it. I was entered into the kids’ program at the time because I was under thirteen. The people my age were really cool and fun to be around. There were only three of them, and they all were younger than me. One of them tried to overdose and one of them cut themselves. I don't exactly know what happened to the third person. I kept in touch with them, even after I discharged. After they left, I made two more friends. They were awesome and helped me recover quicker. When they finally discharged me, I was a bit better, although, I felt like I had not been helped properly. I had the material I needed but no understanding of how it worked.  I tried to apply things they taught me to the real world. But the real world isn’t like the world in the hospital. The real world is a terrible place full of angry people who want to get their ways out of things. I was not happy. I was back home, but instead of being better, I felt even worse than I did before I went to the hospital.

Around a week after I got discharged, I began to cut my sides in an attempt to distract myself from my feelings and hopefully take my cluster headaches away. Although, I still thought it was feeling empty and cutting for attention; like everyone else in school, I was an attention-seeking hog. I simply used my school scissors so  I wouldn’t arouse any concern with my family. I was worried they might have sent me back to the hospital. I created permanent scars on my sides, but at least no one could see them. I told no one about my feelings, for they could have told the entire school. I had to do it because I felt nothing, and if I didn't cut, I would probably kill myself.

My mom had the police called on my dad over three times within half of a year. My parents fought all the time, and my dad went to live somewhere that wasn't where my mom was. When I was with my mom, we almost never hung out with anyone except one family. We had been really close to them for years, but I grew to not enjoy their company as much. I would lock myself in my room to hide from them so they would stop talking to me as much. I grew to be a lot more of an introvert than I used to be. My home life was the worst thing that had happened to me then.

One day, we went to the doctor for a semi-annual checkup. The doctor asked what medications I was on and how I was feeling. I was hospitalized again a few hours later for more suicidal thoughts. I had no idea why I had to be hospitalized for something as plain as that. I had these thoughts all the time. They had to take me in an ambulance and didn't give me a choice of going. It was my first time riding in an ambulance. The medics checked my vitals every ten minutes, which I didn't like, but they were very nice. The feeling of the rubber around my arm made me cringe, and my arm hurt when the rubber was inflating. This was only a little over a month after the first hospitalization. After I arrived and was submitted into inpatient, I was somewhat known as a quiet kid, and I didn't talk much to anyone. I wanted to keep feeling the way I did.  One girl ended up asking me to be her girlfriend, which raised my self-esteem a little, but I refused. I hardly knew her; in fact, I had just learned her name that day. One girl would not speak or eat whatsoever. But, after around 5 days, she smiled. She started smiling and talking to everyone, and I wished I would’ve talked to her. She seemed to be a really cool person. She had added to my faith in humanity.

When I got out, I continued cutting. I would choke myself to better my feelings; I would still punch myself. I had so many plans on how I could end my life: I could jump off an office building, I could drop a toaster in the bathtub, I could steal the gun of a cop so it’d have to shoot me, and so on. I planned to do any one of them. 

School had started, and more bullies came out from their hiding place. I easily learned that 7th grade was just as bad as 6th grade. People would make fun of me for being “emo” and for my short hair. People would also pretend they were throwing up as I walked past them as if I was some hideously disgusting object that they couldn’t handle even being around. My old friends would bully me without knowing what they were doing. Along with that, I had so much work to do for my classes, which added stress to everything I did. I would constantly switch from my Mom’s house to my Dad’s house. Then, soccer season came, and I was especially busy with that. There were so many things going on in that period of time, and my stress was building up quickly. One day, during my spare time, I had read a magazine saying that the suicide rates have gone up over 9% that September, and I felt relieved. I don't know why, but I think it was because I, for the first time, didn't feel alone. Although, that feeling didn't last long, for I soon after attempted to end my life once more.  Friday night, we had company over. They were all either upstairs or in my Mom’s room. So, I was able to sneak into the medicine cabinet. I had done some research. Originally, I was going to drink bleach, but that would be too painful. So, I decided I would overdose on Ibuprofen. I grabbed the bottle and clenched it up to my chest in hopes that nobody could see it. But yet again, my brother walked downstairs and was about to catch me, and I don't want to set that kind of example for anyone. So, early the next morning I went to my therapist and she sent me to the hospital again.  I didn't learn anything at that hospital, and I really didn't do much but eat snacks. But I did get away from my family and school, which is what I needed.

They officially said I had traits of Borderline Personality Disorder, and they can't diagnose me until I have grown up.

Now, school is a scary place for me, although, I would rather take school over being at home. My mother and l fight all the time and my siblings seem to be more annoying than they were a few months ago. I still dislike my life, and sometimes still wish to be dead, although, I am trying to get better. Every day, I have tried to stop at least one bad thing my conscious contemplates. It’s harder than anyone would expect. Hopefully, this will help my life in the long run. Throughout these experiences, I have learned that in life, you won’t go far unless you know where the goal points are. Change is inevitable, except for vending machines. Vending machines will always give everyone problems.