Chronicles Of An Unimportant Person

Mutilation Disorder

Self-mutilation disorder is one of the things that I feel like my mom understands more than my doctors ever will. You see my mom is an interesting character in my life, I don't like her but I don't hate her. I still crave her acceptance and love but I also want her to disappear: I'm stuck in a middle ground with both of my parents. 

My mom found out about my self-harm through my therapist almost three years ago, I was 13. Honestly, I was expecting her to tell my father but she didn't, she just yelled and slapped me before breaking down. I didn't do anything as she held me I just stared blankly at the wall. 

Later that week when I met up with my therapist I didn't speak to her I just glared until she begged me to say something. I remember it so clearly, I said these exact words, "What? What do you want me to say? That I'm just so happy that you decided to tell my mom what you specifically promised to keep? I trusted you! And this is how I end up? This is exactly why I don't trust anyone! Because of people like you and don't tell me that it's your job because this is straight bullshit!" After that, I stood up and walked to my classroom. 

I know I was wrong: to blame it on her, it was her job and if one of her clients is a danger in any way she has to report it. I just- it's bullshit that she tricked me into showing her, she tricked me and I was so fucking gullible others wouldn't be that stupid, would they? 

I didn't know what I was doing at first, I just thought that it was normal to experiment with it. I heard about it so much and how it was bad but it helped depression. I thought it would cure me and I wouldn't be such a hassle anymore. I thought it would make my parents stop fighting and my sister happier; I was wrong, wasn't I? 

At first, I didn't have anything sharp and I was afraid of knives at the time. I found one of my sister's sharp seashells, I had been listening to 'Breathe Me' by Sia because I didn't like hearing my cries blend into the abnormally silent house. I cried. I don't know why; I had no reason to. I pressed to shell to my skin and repeatedly pushed on one spot until I got a tiny bit of blood, it was merely a scratch but I did it to myself. I ran to my sister's room to show her as I was crying, she just shrugged and shooed me away. 

I felt horrible. 

She didn't care, so I cried more. She was the only person I truly love and she didn't even hug me. I didn't want her to care about the wounds I wanted her to care about me crying. I didn't do it for a couple of days until I got into a fight with my mom, I felt like shit and I was shaky. I looked through the cabinets in the main bathroom, it was my parents' bathroom. I didn't know what I was looking for until I saw it:

My dad's straight razor blades. 

I took one and raced to my bathroom. My room wasn't giant, the bed and the dresser took up most of the space. On the right when you walk in there's a door to a small, small room and then when you go through that there's a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. I slid down the wall of my bathroom and stared at it, I think I was contemplating whether I should or not. 

I did, it hurt like a mother but for a split second, I felt okay. For a split second, I felt like it was fine, that life was fine. It was euphoric. I was 11 when I first cut properly and I continued for 2 straight years, then once my mom found out they checked every day. About a month after my birthday I got in a huge fight with my dad, I felt hopeless, scared and tired. So I attempted suicide for my second time but this time I was determined to die. 

I ran a cold bath and submerged myself in it clothed. Pulling out my dad's straight razor blade that I owned for 3 years by then I felt happy, I felt okay. I felt relieved. I pressed the razor to my vein and pushed, it burned more than I remembered, hot tears opposed the bitter bath that I accompanied. I remember looking up at the sink where my note laid, I wrote it with the typewriter I got for my 13th birthday: it's slightly broken now. I tried finding my vein on my right arm but I missed, I heard the door open as I was slipping in and out of consciousness... 

I forgot to lock the fucking door. 

I heard mom, she didn't cry, she wasn't even in shock. She just said, "****, get up. Stop playing around." She didn't care, my dad, on the other hand, pulled me out of the bath screaming and crying. He put me in his chair and held my arms with pads, period pads because he couldn't find any clean face towels. He was screaming at my mom to hold my arms, well he said this, "Bitch do something! Stop being a useless whore and hold her arms!" 

She was trying to call the cops, she was also kind of drunk. He grabbed her phone and threw it and forced her to press on my arms, he slapped her and screamed at her. 

It hurt, I didn't want to do that. I wanted him to stop, they were in a toxic relationship since I was born. I didn't want to tear the family apart more, I just wanted to fix it. I wasn't doing any good anyway, I was erasing the problem and they didn't let me. 

They'd rather me be physically alive and be dead mentally than die and be happy.

Why? 

They didn't fucking love me, and don't say they did. You'll understand why I'm saying this when I get to explaining it, trust me.

I cried loudly, screaming for him to stop hitting her, I strained my voice as it broke over and over again until he hit me. He told me to shut up, that I didn't know what I wanted... That all I did was fail that day. 

Later on my older step-sister and my mom cleaned my arms, they debunked me. They said it was all for show and I didn't really do it to die. They talked about me like I wasn't standing right in front of them; like I didn't exist. I slept with my little sister in her room for about a week, I didn't go to school. 

My therapist found out and told the school counselor, the counselor forced me to go to Children's Hospital to get evaluated. Let's just say I got a one way ticket to an ambulance ride to River Oaks Hospital, a mental health hospital. I remember that night not because I was set on seeing death but because my family didn't care or they just didn't believe me. 

Why don't people take me seriously?