Being diagnosed with depression even when you know you are depressed is something one never wants. I knew that there was something seriously wrong with me when I was younger, no one sane and healthy would sit and spend hours planning ways to end their life. No one sane and healthy would plan out their funeral, would plan out everything. I was ten years old when I had my first thought and it was as I was helping my nana Bea with cooking. I wasn’t allowed to handle most things but I did let myself think I wonder what would happen if I just stuck my head in there? I never did but the thought was there and it was a strong one.
From that point on I always found myself thinking about ways to end my life. I was thirteen when I first let myself give into temptation. I remember picking up that blade and running it up and down my arm. I wasn’t intending on ending my life, I just wanted to feel in control for a chance and, yet, I realize that I never was in control. Because the moment that I started down that path I wound up getting addicted. I was addicted to the feeling of the pain that cutting myself caused, I was addicted to feeling like I was in control of my own life. For three years I did not stop. I did not want to get better because I did not feel like I deserved to get better. It was when I was almost seventeen when I put my self harm away. I went cold turkey and I managed to stay clean until a few years ago.
I remember being clean of self harm for so long but still thinking I was a failure, that I was a waste of space. I had gotten even better at planning my suicide and I thank that happening partially to now having the internet where I could look it up and I could decide what would be the most effective, be the quickest way, to ending my life. I still had an itch to hurting myself but I never did because I was determined to give up self harm. I was capable of ignoring the need, the itch, to run a blade up and down my arms for so long because I always thought of those who I would be hurting if I did kill myself. After all, it wouldn’t hurt me. It’d only hurt them and I love my family to much to put them through that.
A few years ago I wound up giving in to my thoughts and hurting myself. I found myself concentrating on one arm due to the tattoos on my other arm and me not wanting to ******** them up with my self harm. After that I didn’t go back and I’ve not been back since that night. But it was then that it was a turning point for me. That was when I realized just how ******** up I was, and how much I need the help. I am not okay and I haven’t been for a solid sixteen years now. I hate how weak I feel for being the way I am. But I also know that seeing a therapist is a good idea and I’m thankful that I have finally done so. I’m thankful for finally being on antidepressants. But I just wish that I didn’t need these things. It sucks.
Manage Your Items