I remember I was 13 when I first told my mother I wanted my life to end. I was getting bullied every day in middle school, teases and taunts were on the regular, dyke, butch, lesbian, and weirdo. Never before has someone told me to kill myself, but i felt so unwelcomed in that school that i couldnt stand it anymore. I had my own problems going on at home.
My father had just started dabbling in marijuana, and he had begun displaying very unstable behavior. He was leaving for his friend's house more and more frequently, and I got tired of waiting for him to tuck me in at night after a while. My parents started having arguments over finances, and my dad complained to heart over and over again how he couldn't spend his money on the things he wants to enjoy, like $3,000 drum sets.
I got really down. I was aware that my life and body was changing rapidly, but couldn't do anything about it. What made matters worse was the fact that my cousin and her family had made the move back to southern california so that her mother could evade the law because she stole $25 grand from a fancy eatery. I did the only thing I could, and I'm not proud of where it took me. I cut myself. It was a small nick with my dad's razor, and it hurt like hell the first time I did it. But it temporarily took away that numbness I was so desperately trying to get away from.
I told my mom, because it started to scare me when the wound wouldnt stop bleeding. She asked me why, and I told her everything. I wanted to die so bad at that point, I should have just gotten it over with. Maybe it wasn't that significant. She told me that we will start looking for a therapist.
My mom is a very logical thinker. When a small problem is in her way, she tries her damndest to fix it the only way she knows how; taking action.
