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  LiveWire / My Forums / Viewing Story

My subtle suicide
The following story was submitted anonymously on Jan. 1, 2004.
The names have been changed to protect the author's privacy.

Hello, I'm a 15 year old from Minnesota, and I have tried to kill myself. I thought I'd just come right out and say it, and if you don't want to read about that, click the back button, right now. If you have ever thought about it though, if you're a cutter... this will interest you. And I hope you'll take the time to read it. I know that for me, knowing it could get better was a big help.

Around thanksgiving of last year I picked up a sharp part of a "male care" kit that I'd gotten for my birthday from my parents. I'd just been dumped and I really needed something to take my mind off of it, to go somewhere, do something to not think about it.
I found pain. My pain. Not the pain of events or jamming your toe in a door, the pain that comes from you, to you, for you. The pain that comes from cutting. The first time I was hesitant. The knife wasn't even sharp. I'd been drawing on my arms all day at school, and saw a particular symbol between drawn-in veins, a rune that symbolized resurrection and rebirth, I smiled.

It happened to be right on my wrist. I dug in as hard as I could and traced it, again, and again, and again. It didn't break the skin, yet. I got frustrated. I went upstairs to the kitchen, got a real knife, laid my hand firmly on the cutting board, and cut with the same ferocity I'd used with the dull blade. I cut deeper than I wanted to. I liked that.
Over the weeks my parents started noticing marks. I told them I'd been in a park that I'd brushed up against a bush, that someone at school had bit me, whatever came to mind. A perfect evening to me was reading to myself the poetic death I'd composed in my notebook, written in runes, letting blood soak the page's worth. I always put the evidence in the trash compactor, and my parents didn't notice the missing knife, or the blood on the pocketknife I found.

Finally, one morning I just couldn't take it anymore. Lying to the only two people who had ever loved me at all was just too much. I told them that I'd lied. I told them that what made the mark they'd worried about was no bush. It was I. And that wasn't all. I rolled up my sleeve and showed them more cuts, they were shell shocked, frozen. Couldn't move a muscle. They were still sitting there when I went to school.

I came back and things just weren't the same. They kept telling me that they loved me. God, that made me sick, physically sick. NOW they're telling me this, even though I knew all along! They think that will stop me! Never. And I attacked myself other ways. I burned, I read up on this forum about salt and ice, which I grew to love. Just seeing your skin white, hard, cold as you feel inside, dead. Like I should be.

One morning I came to school on amphetamines and passed out. I woke up in the nurse's office, sat up, looked around, thought "oh my god" to myself and audibly swore. I was consumed by hate. Hate for my parents, hate for school, life, myself. Hate so strong I felt sure that if I looked in a mirror I would see it burning like a thousand bonfires in my wincing eyes.

I took out my razor. It wasn't a big one, since I wasn't wearing the pants with pockets good enough to hide the big one. It was a piece of a shaving razor that I broke off with my pocketknife. I swiftly rolled down my sleeve and viciously tried, desperately needed to cut. Deeper and deeper, letting the blood flow everywhere. I couldn't cut deep enough with that small razor, and this frustrated me. I ended up with numerous horizontal cuts alongside the initial gash, the first attempt. The last thing I saw was the nurse coming in and dropping the glass of water she'd brought me.

I woke up in the hospital. I felt... different. Just... completely different. That's the only word to describe it. They'd put me on some medications, but they hadn't had time to take effect yet. There was just something about knowing I should be dead but wasn't... I realized I was thankful. It was then that I knew I would never try to kill myself again.
That was the beginning of Christmas break. Since then all I've done is one session of salt and ice out of curiosity, and it hurt. It hadn't before. I dropped the ice and brushed all the salt off.

Since then I've just been... okay. I've been listening to the CD I got for Christmas, the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album, and I really like it. I'd been listening to all death metal and I really didn't like it. It just seemed fitting to how I was feeling. Now, I wouldn't drop another dime on Rob Zombie and Marilyn Manson. Most of their music just seems repetitive, boring. When I'm listening to music now, new kinds of music, I'm... happy. And, after what I've been through, that's a great feeling.

Thank you for reading this. I hope it helps you, if just a little bit, to know that there are people like you out there. And that it can and WILL get better. I used to despair 24/7. People who were just so positive were people I laughed at. But now... well, it's good that I know to laugh at myself.



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