Dumb teenage angst.
When I was 12 I was stupid depressed. I definitely had body dismorphia and anorexia nervosa, not that I learned anything about either until I was older. I was constantly patting my hair and tummy and checking out my shadows to make sure I was sufficiently hiding the fact I was a hideous idiot, so people around me wouldn't be disturbed. I spent the majority of my days sleeping and the remainder nodding off at school, probably because I never ate. I had ridiculous social anxiety, I never forgot people only interacted with me because they were stuck in the same room. I hated the adults in my life for foisting me on my innocent peers.
I came home every day to tears and raised voices because I was failing all my classes. All day my panic meter was bumped to 11, and it didn't stop until I was in bed. It was really bad. I ran out of tears after a few months. I was just in constant pain. I was short of breath because I was always on the verge of crying. I "mumbled" because I couldn't access the energy needed to project my voice, because nothing I said could hold any merit, and because I never asked to be talked to anyway and conversation made me uncomfortable. This was me, at 1%, for months. And everyone hated it! I was a burden to everyone I knew. I felt this hole in my heart every waking moment. If someone says they feel like they are "at the bottom of the barrel" emotionally, or Green Day's "heart drenched in gasoline", this is what they are talking about.
I had two outlets to my constant stress. When I recognized what an irredeemable waste of time, space, and oxygen I was, I would cut myself. I would still hold the same reflex of violence towards anything that disgusts me as much as I disgusted myself back then. But nothing has ever come close. And when I saw myself interacting with sweet, innocent people, who gave their everything to raise me and make sure I had clothes on my back and a roof over my head, I'd go write suicide notes full of apologies for stealing the food out of their mouths and the time from their day.
I lost my faith in God, for inflicting this pain on a child. I lost any respect for myself. I was just sad and apologetic day in and day out.
Things came perfectly together to not push me over the edge. Eventually the grossest, creepiest guy developed a crush on me and showed me he had started cutting himself, to impress me. It grossed me out so much I stopped. It's not just that he was gross, but he saw my primitive fight or flight response to my own terrifying existence and thought it was a fashion statement. I had a cold not a week later and found NyQuil as my new best friend, which kept me from tweaking out as much just being in the world. I abused a few bottles in an adolescent suicide attempt, then couldn't afford any more. The boy started stealing my pencils (no matter where I tried to keep them) and I was punished by not being allowed to participate in class. Something inside me snapped. It was great! I punched the boy in the face in the halls that day and told him never to talk to me again. I turned in halfassed classwork because I didn't care about disappointing my teachers, and it brought my grade up substantially compared to turning in nothing and staying mute when teachers asked about it. I started talking to people because fuck them, and soon they started wanting to hang out with me (Suckers!).
And then one night I was falling asleep and I felt different. For just a moment before unconsciousness it was like an inkling of an instinct that soon I was going to spy a light at the end of the tunnel, maybe. It was just the suggestion that maybe something existed outside of all of the worst hormones in my brain going off at full production all at the same time, all of the time. So I took a little moment of reflection in case I never again had this kind of perspective, recognized what I had been through and to not forget what it taught me, and prepared for the end of it. Now that I was at the getting better part if "It Gets Better" I looked back and wondered if it would be worth it to have killed myself. The answer isn't nice, but if that 12 year old girl had decided to end her suffering, it would be ok by me. I was waiting for it to pass because I didn't know anything about the person I was going to become. But if I could trade it all, this meaningful adult life to help that scared little child I would in an instant. I will never get that bad again, because I know now how about mindful thinking, about what happiness feels like, what's normal and what's not, where I can go for help. But if the history books were turned the other way, I had made a different decision, it would have been a fair sacrifice.
A year later I found one of my razors. I didn't keep it on my person at all times anymore. It used to be the only thing in the world I could trust to do the right thing, and now it was a dusty piece of metal. I dragged it across my wrist a few times, but it was just painful and annoying now, not cathartic. It was then I had a full scope of what I had been through and what could make me hurt myself every day for such a long time. But by this time I didn't wear long sleeves every say, or own 12 different wristbands to cover my shame. So the very next day my mom saw it and flipped the fuck out on me. Spent the whole car ride home screaming about how bad she had it as a kid. How I could act out like this. That this is a serious thing and she's sick of my self loathing bullshit. I cried and tried to talk to her. She took away all of my black clothes and my cell phone. It sucked. But I could take it.
I had been afraid to reach out to her, to tell her I did this, to tell her I hated myself and wished I was dead, because this is what I had expected. Once I stopped, I realized my errors. Nothing in the world could make a loving mother scream at her hurting child, punish her because she was an inch from giving up. I was horrified I'd even thought such a thing. But here I was, in tears, and I couldn't understand why she was acting this way. I'd gone through every way this conversation could have gone and this one was the fever dream of a sick child.
We never brought it up again until a few christmases later. I don't remember what brought it up, but I lightheartedly, with no malice, no specifics, brought it up and she immediately started crying and accusing me of calling her a bad mother.
I went away to college, talk to her every now and again, think about how I should be treating her now as an adult. I always remember this and never understand. But I think I do now. I think it was a fashion statement to her, a way to be edgy and aloof. That I played with suicide with her baby girl. I've always had this cognitive dissonance, have never found an answer. I am seeing her in August, I think I need to apologize to her. It was my battle to fight, but she was shocked at the casualties involved without knowing anything else. She respects me now. I've accomplished a lot, become ambitious and articulate. I want to let her know the full story and apologize, because while I was hurting, I hurt her as well and recognized it about just as much as she recognized my pain.
Sorry if I've been rambling, I'm enjoying my weekend in my beautiful little apartment with my fluffy lil baby cat, waiting for my amazing boyfriend to come home from work, I am a little stoned. Crazy how it all turned out, but I, for one, am doing ok.
TO THOSE WHO HAVE MADE IT THIS FAR: Do people constantly accuse you of mumbling? Flip those people off. Are you just a constant fuck up? Do your parents/guardians comment about how you've FINALLY left your room, and that it's 2pm, Sleeping Beauty? They don't know you stare at the ceiling for hours because you dread coming outside to those comments. Do you abstain from offing your sorry ass cause you know your single mom can't afford funeral expenses? I'm sorry. I'm sorry about all the fucks you're giving. You're not wrong to feel the ways you do about the things that bother you. But it's gonna one of two ways: you will learn to cope, and life will change for the better. Or it will not, and you will die. Good news: We all love you. Yes, we know you're a drain on society. Yes, you take and take and never give back, you don't have a job, you constantly disappoint people around you. We don't care. You do. So we need you around, okay? Because some people NEVER care about others, about how we're vastly overpopulated and going to drive ourselves out soon. You care about offending others, but a lot of people just don't care at all, and are just dicks. The fact you thought about us at all means something, no? Look, you're already a better person than half the people I talk to on a daily basis. And they're ok. So you're awesome! We all have our bad days, where we can't do anything but let other people and ourselves down. But, even if you haven't seen the cool person you can be ever before in your life, I bet they're pretty awesome and you'd love to meet them, and let them have your back. Until then, it's us, internet strangers and friends and family who have to do it for you! If even at your best you're a mediocre piece of shit, you're at least an honest one! Don't be afraid to reach out!
If you don't, that's cool too. If you can't make it, I respect everything that led you to that decision and I love you just as much, which is a whole lot. Nobody else can feel your pain but you, so no one else can make that decision. I love you a lot, though.