August 12th

Curled up into a ball, I could see the blood as it poured out in gushes from the wound, tears staining the face and hands holding shakily, the pair of scissors from the table beside me. I could see the swift motion in which I plunged it into my abdomen, cringed in pain and then lay there, waiting for help to come, or death, which ever chose to arrive first. I could see the crimson, splashing out like a fountain or dripping out like a leaky tap, depending on how I chose to cut myself. I could see it all, huddled in that little ball, arms around knees, crying, crying, crying…

My mouth was open, shouting out silent protests, silent complains, “I’m tired of this, I don’t want to do this anymore” and I believed it all, I went along with it. I was tired, exhausted…frustrated. I wanted to give up, suicidal  thoughts…What if I just end it now? I knew it was wrong, I damn well knew but all I could think of then was “My life is shit. ” It’s not the worst life to have but at that point, that was all I thought of, tears flowing down like a river through the cracks in my mind. I was broken, I was exhausted, I wanted a place to lie down and rest but instead received a blow to my head. I didn’t want to do anything, I didn’t want to continue, I was tired. Tired.

And I’m just so scared now, when sober, that it’ll happen again and I won’t be able to control myself. I need as much care as I get during this fragile phase but the people around me just don’t understand. I need their help, not their rage, not their shouts. I need their love. I need their appreciation.