I am 14 years old and have been diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder. I'm a victim of rape, child abuse and molestation. I think my main start was when I was a small child. I'd hear voices that said that I was an idiot. I was a fool. I couldn't do anything right. I was worthless. I should have died at birth. Why was I even born? Every night, I felt the hot salty tears caress my freckled cheeks and my sister whom I shared a room with did nothing but sleep. I envied her. I knew she was going to live a good life and leave me in the dust. And I was right. I must alert my readers that this is not a success story. I've been on Zoloft for a few months now and it's not working. I remember the first time I cut myself. I felt guilty. Guilty that I was even alive. I sat outside one November day and stared at my pure, white, untouched thigh. I was out scraping paint off the fence (or rather, was supposed to be) when my thoughts engulfed me. Before I knew it I had made an incision. I cut the "I'm" into my leg. Moments later, I looked down from my thoughts and I had "Sorry" written in curly, intricate letters. I had a fascination with the blood running down my leg. It was warm against the cold of my skin. The cold that reflected that of my soul. It was the only warm thing that ever touched me. I needed to cut to stay warm. The next step wasn't too far away.
About two days afterwards, I was staring at my wrist. Through every layer of skin, I saw through. Deeper and deeper my eyes swam. Until I saw the vein. Ah! Escape. Death. So permanent. So real. So comforting. I took that blade again, warmed it in my hands and with one quick action, my wrist was bleeding. Drip, drip, drip... unto my mother's nice white sheets. But I could care less about the sheets. I needed to die and I needed to die fast. But obviously... it doesn't work.
My best friend noticed my scars the Monday that I returned to school. She said nothing, only gasped. I left her to her thoughts and she to mine. When the bell rang, 7th period was over. Time to go back into my brain and think. I was a kettle boiling over, but my whistle was broken. The only way I could get it all out was to cut.
I went home. I lifted the leg of my L.E.I. wide leg jeans and caressed the scab of my handiwork. I scratched it off. It's got to scar. I've got to remember. I've got to remember to prevent future guilt.
Next we move into December. My grandmother is dying. When I hear the news, I cut. I carve "INRI", "Fear", the Anarchy symbol, "Angst", "Decide", and I drew a box with swirls around my first one. I must stay warm.
I have plenty of friends. Friends, friends, all over the place. But still I am alone. Still I am pathetic and worthless. Still I must die. Then I meet Nick. He tells me to stop. I stop. But still the pain rages on. The tears still throb mercilessly through my eyes. I am weak. My mother put me into therapy when I was 8 years old. Another futile attempt to get me out of this depression. Alas, I'm in too deep. Am I destined to be a slave to a diagnosis? I should hope not...
But I am still young. I have much to learn.
"Gaol"- by Abagail Liu
I look into a glass reflection to find answers,
Yet find only oblivion.
I scream and cry for help and I am locked
Away...
Locked away in a self-built prison,
Convicted as a killer by an unfair jury:
My own heart.
Sentenced to serving life,
I seek out someone willing to share a cell
With me,
To spend the long nights with,
Willing to rip off the mask and stop the masquerade,
To calm my shivering body with warmth and fend off
The pain.
Willing to fight off all the guards of this child,
And carry me gloriously away from this gaol.
I look up into the stars for a glimmer of hope,
But alas, 'tis a cloudy night.
In that glass reflection
I find nothing, and break it from frustration...
I watch my hands bleed and shake them off,
I am used to pain,
So used to it, I cannot feel it any more.
I have become numbed to the hurt,
I am soley empty.
But still I dare to dream,
I focus on the fallacy to try to escape,
But when I try,
The sirens blare and ring in my ears,
I am shot down at the knees and chest,
And so I wait to die.
My escape, at last.
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