My Fucking Mess Of A Life

Useless.

Useless. That's the word that bounced around my mind. It was always there from the second I had heard it said, at least in regards to me. I couldn't get it out. I tried. I thought maybe if I open my mouth, it'll just fly out and disappear and I could forget it. I have never been more wrong. Instead of just leaving my mind, whisked away by the wind never to bother me again, it just kept coming. I was under the delusion that it might work like a song. When you get a song stuck in your head, people say that you should listen to that song and it won't be stuck in your head anymore. I said the word once, but then I couldn't stop. I was repeating it over and over. It got stronger and stronger in my head until I could see it. I couldn't do anything to stop it. I tried, I pleaded with myself, with the air, with God , with the word itself. It was no use. The word just continued to glare at me from inside my mind mercilessly, the sound of the word coming out of my mouth piercing my ears. I couldn't stop the tears that were running down my face. I was choking on my own breath, on the word. I tried to cover my ears. It did nothing. I banged my head against the dull tile wall. I slammed my hands against the gray walls of the stall feeling them wobble against my shaking hands. I heard the door open and I froze, not daring to move a muscle. I heard the shuffling of feet as they stood in front of the mirror. I could feel my heart beating extremely fast in my chest. It was a combination of the fear of someone being here and potentially hearing me, mixed with the fact that I had gone from hyperventilating and choking to holding my breath the second I heard the door open. I waited until I heard the creak of the door before I let myself breathe. My head was spinning and I felt like I needed to scream. I couldn't, of course. Someone would hear me and then I'd really be in trouble. I had missed most of first period, didn't have a pass, and no real reason or excuse. I knew that the fact that I was crying my eyes out would probably be a reasonable cause for missing first period, but that would mean they would send me to the counselor and I knew they couldn't help me. My therapist couldn't. My friends could only hug me and try to comfort me, and as much as I appreciate the sentiment, it did nothing. They would also take me to the counselor. My other option would be to dry my eyes and try to look at least semi-decent. I knew my red eyes would probably give me away but they wouldn't push if I made it clear I didn't want to talk. I couldn't not do something, though. I knew I couldn't scream but I couldn't help it. When I opened my mouth, I could feel my throat begin to go raw and all the air left me, things that normally happen when you scream, but no sound came out. I continued to do that until my head was swimming. It helped, but I knew that I needed to scream for real, with sound. I kept trying everything I knew to calm myself down, but nothing worked. In my head I kept going over who I could try talking to and what they would say and how it would end, but the outcome was always the same. Them telling me to calm down and trying to compliment me and make me feel happy or telling me to go to the counselor. I didn't need that. Albert Einstein once said insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different outcome. I knew what they would say because I had heard it all before. I didn't need to be happy, at least not right then. I just needed to calm down, to breathe evenly and stop crying. Having someone tell you to calm down doesn't mean that it'll work. I knew I needed to calm down, I just didn't know how. After I had gone through this process about ten times I finally decided that I couldn't stand it. I had to do something. I had left my pocket knife at home that day after taking it out the previous night to help me with same thing I was experiencing now. Maybe last night wasn't as bad since I was home, but still in the same category. All I had with me was my multi tool with a small semi-blunt knife. I didn't care. I needed something. I took it out and pulled out the mini blade. I unzipped the big, dark grey, oversized hoodie I was wearing just enough to have access to my shoulder. There were already I few red marks there from the night before and a very small line of dried blood. See, I don't cut like most people who cut do. I don't have a small rectangle blade I keep hidden in a small floorboard and I didn't make big, deep gashes that had blood spilling from them profusely and I sure as hell didn't cut my wrists. I like wearing short sleeves because I love the cold. I wear short sleeves in the winter so my wrists wouldn't work. No, instead I went with my shoulder. I wasn't allowed to wear sleeveless outside of the house so it was fine and most of my pajama shirts were baggy oversized t-shirts anyways. There was the occasional tank top that I wore to bed but I didn't do that too often. The tank tops would hug my body just flaunting all my fat for the world (or just my family and friends who would come over) to see. It wouldn't be too hard to stop wearing those and it definitely wouldn't be questioned or noticed. I also was never quite fond of the rectangular blades so popular among cutters. I did have one, yes. I kept it hidden in my room but I didn't like to use it on my skin because it was rusted and old. I preferred my pocket knives, clean and neat, that I can sharpen and it has a serrated part along with a flat part. It also folds into itself so knowing that it has a little protection from dust does make me a little more comfortable with it. I also don't have to hide the knives. I'm not really supposed to have the blade, but I do. I just have it. I don't remember where this one's from. I used to have more but I lost them over time. They all came from different places so I didn't really remember where each came from. The knives, though, I knew exactly where they came from and my family knew I had them, so there was no worry if someone walked into my room and saw a pocket knife on my desk. Now, when I say I don't cut like most people, I don't just mean placement or tools, I mean pressure. I don't slice my skin open with blood gushing out. In fact, the sight of too much blood makes me queasy and it's harder to hide large cuts than just scratches. I take the point of the blade and I scrape it across my skin. I just do that over and over, rubbing away the skin until it's red and raw and you can see beads of blood. The multi tool was dull, though, so I had to press harder, trying hard to steady my shaking hands, and I just pulled it across my skin a small amount. My breathing had evened out and my heart was no longer racing. The tears were slowing down but blinking sent a small amount of salty water down my face, not just from my thoughts, but the pain that I had just inflicted on myself. I didn't mind though. I was calm. I didn't cut because I was angry at myself and thought I deserved pain and misery, I cut because it calms me down. It's not a regular occurrence either. It is a last resort. Unfortunately, it seems like It's been coming down to that a lot lately. The word was still in my head but it wasn't blazing like it had been moments before. I waited a few moments before wiping my face with my sleeve-covered hand and I left the stall going to stand in front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. I looked like I had been to hell, which I wouldn't say was far off. My normally wavy, brushed out, and sometimes styled, hair was messy and puffing out from my hood, part of it covering my tear-stained face. My eyes were red and my cheeks and nose were splotched with pink. I removed my glasses as I got a paper towel to dry my eyes, then wetted it so I could wash my face. When I was done I looked in the mirror and my eyes still looked bright red. It crossed my mind that someone would quickly ask if something was wrong purely from that, as it was a sure sign of crying. I shrugged it off, thinking I would just say I was tired or I had dust in my eye or something. It even occurred to me that I could say I was high. If it was a choice between lying and getting in major trouble for drugs or admitting that I was crying and risk breaking down again, I was fully prepared to say I was high. Thankfully no one asked, as I kept my head down and my hair covered my face. One thing that I couldn't hide, however, was the shaking. My hands were still trembling and I couldn't stop it. If I tried really hard, I could, but then my head started to shake and I decided it would be less noticeable if my hands shook, seeing as though they were covered by giant sleeves. I took a few more minutes to make sure I was steady and there wasn't a high chance of me breaking down again out of the blue. After I deemed myself fit for the judgement of my peers, I pulled open the door and stepped out of the bathroom, preparing myself for what was no doubt going to be a very difficult, phony-smile, filled day.   

I.J.  12/29/16

A/n This is my own personal experience. If anyone has something they would like to say, please share it in the comments below. If what you have to say is negative, I cannot stop you from commenting it, but I can ask you please don't. As I'm sure you can derive from the text above, I am having some issues at the moment and the last thing I need is criticism from someone who doesn't know me. If anyone has any factual issues with this, once again, this is just from my own limited amount of knowledge and personal experience. To those out there who might think I am doing this for attention or anything like that, you are mistaken. I posted this on wattpad because I am a very big fan of this app and I have seen that the people on here are very supportive and nice and sweet and welcoming and I just wanted to share this with someone who I don't have to see everyday when I wake up. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed or got something from my story.