I Let Myself Decay

...Chapter 1

It started with a feeling, and it spread through me like a fire out of control. It slowly consumed me. It infected me like a slow decaying disease until there was nothing left. Nothing left of the person I once was, the child I used to be. Depression is a serious illness. I should know, it killed me.

. . .

At what age does a child become a teenager? Is it when they hit puberty? Is it earlier than that or later? I wish I knew the easy and right answer. I believe we grow up when we experience something a child shouldn't. It's a slap to the face, in my case, literally. As I have become an adult I often pondered on my childhood. What made me do this? Why did I feel that? Sometimes I wish I was a child again, but don't we all? Some people have easy childhoods but still end up depressed. Some people have rough childhoods and end up depressed. No matter what a person is going through, depression can hit them. Depression, anxiety, an eating disorder, self-harm, or any other mental illness can ease into a person's brain without difficulty. The phrase, "It's all in your head", is true. A mental disorder takes place in the brain. People just don't generally discuss what goes on in the brain when it happens.

. . .

There isn't a single reason why I'm depressed; there are hundreds of reasons why I'm depressed. I could tell you all of them but that would be giving away most of the story. Before I tell you my story, know this: I'm not looking for your sympathy, your opinion, or your hate. I am simply saying, read.

. . .Chapter 1

It doesn't take much to slide a blade across your skin. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four, what's another 63 more? I was two years clean of cutting. Two years without the torment, without the urge. Two years bled down the drain. I can't say what triggered it; I don't really understand it myself. It could have been anything: the change in medication, the pictures on Tumblr, or even remembering. All I know is that this momentary peace, this momentary freedom is what I need. I look at the shaving razor I've torn apart and then it all comes rushing back like a heavy storm settling in. Two years bled down the fucking drain. I cry as I dab at my fresh wounds. They're small and nothing compared to pictures I've seen on Tumblr but I've learned by now to cut where no one else can see.

It's two in the morning, maybe I should sleep. I look at the bottle of sleeping pills on my nightstand. "They're there to help you," my mind says but I turn away from them with a frown. I can't sleep, I don't need it. "You have school in the morning," my mind says. I scoff and look at my laptop. I don't want to think about school, it just fuels my anxiety. I can feel my hands shaking, the cold in the air. "Maybe you should turn on the heater," my mind says.

"No."

I scroll through Tumblr, relating to almost every post about depression. I'm making myself worse. I'm doing this to myself. I look down at my shirt, there's blood where my stomach and arms are. I hope my mom doesn't notice when she washes the clothes. I sigh and peek at them, the cuts. I run a finger over the bumps and ridges, I smile. "Two years bled down the drain. . ."

"Stop it," I say out loud. I look around my room as if someone could have heard me. I listen for a few seconds and hear the familiar snores of my parents down the hall. I take a moment to survey my surroundings. I note the blood stained tissues, and the ones used for wiping tears. What have I done? "Two years bled down the drain," it says, the voice that never seems to leave. The voice, it's what told me to kill myself in the first place, made me start cutting again, the voice is always there ever terrifying and unyielding. I start to cry again. This is a relapse, a relapse. I stare at the pill bottle where I've hid the razors, a few more won't hurt?

There are two sides of me: the rational and sane child, and the monster. I chew on my nails, "A few more won't hurt." My head hurts and I'm hungry. Don't eat. Don't eat. Don't eat. Don't eat. I grab the pill bottle and take out a razor. I hold it to my thigh and slice. The fast pain and instant relief is liberating. My upper thighs are sliced up with small cuts, I move my leg, and it hurts. I put the razor back in the pill bottle and place it among my other pill bottles. I dab at the blood with another tissue. I am numb.