Once upon a time there was a boy who found it difficult to express how he was feeling. It’s not that he didn’t have any feelings, it was that he had too many and was becoming numb due to the emotional weight he carried. He wanted nothing more than to shed this weight. So while shopping for Back To School supplies with his Mom, he snuck in an extra black and white speckled composition book. When she asked why he needed two, he made up some half-believable excuse which she bought. He found himself often lying when faced with a potential "touchy/feely talk". Perhaps he learned this method of coping from his tight lipped father. Or perhaps he learned it from the "boys don’t cry" stereotype society had engrained in him, even at such a young age. Or perhaps he is just making up excuses and wanting to place blame on someone other than himself.
He didn’t know how to approach certain topics. He couldn’t find the right words to verbalize it. He was embarrassed to feel the way he did, like he was being an oversensitive little girl. It was more than embarrassment though. It was sheer terror of what people would think if he were to come clean with what was going on inside him. Just the thought of it made him instantly sick to his stomach. There were times when he found himself caught and tangled up in a "touchy/feely talk". He would literally break into a cold sweat. His heart would pound, his stomach would turn nauseous and he could feel his hands begin to tremble. It was like being backed into a corner and wanting desperately to escape, without knowing how to escape. It was as if his body was paralyzed, while his head raced uncontrollably. It was that out of control sensation which he not only hated, but also highly feared. He honestly believed there would be no coming back from it. That he would always be known as the boy who had a breakdown. People would then act weird around him and he would be viewed as being borderline crazy. He just couldn’t take the risk of having that occur. So whenever asked if everything was alright or if he wanted to talk about something, his reply was always..."I’m fine."
It was an easy out and he would continue to use it for years to come. At times, he even uses it to this day. He swept it under the rug. He stuffed it down, only to have it erupt in his face, overflow and bring him to his knees. He would soon learn that this method of dealing with things only compounds the problem. And despite learning this difficult and immensely painful lesson, there are days when he still finds himself being emotionally evasive. Why? The only answer I can think of is that it’s his shield, his protection from things he wishes not to endure. He believed it to be the world’s greatest mask, whether the world saw past it or not, he wore it daily.
Unknown to his entire family and all of his friends, the boy had a passion for writing. He wrote late at night, alone in his bedroom, with just small light on. Lying on his bed was a stack of magazines and school books, items he would use as a disguise. A ploy that would go into effect if someone were to knock on his bedroom door. If he couldn’t hide his notebook under his nightstand fast enough, before they entered the room, then he would play off his writing as doing homework. It was his dirty little secret. Nobody needed to know. He wasn’t writing about anyone. He wasn’t hurting anyone. In fact, he was only trying to help himself. He was writing about himself and how he felt inside. It was brutally honest, almost always tearful and extremely raw in content. He worried not about his grammar. Sentence structure, misspellings or poor penmanship was not the focus here. It was the emotions behind the words, or rather the release of those emotions. That is what he graded himself on. And in that regard, he was a standout student, a true scholar. For the first time in his life, instead of feeling embarrassed, he actually felt proud. Proud that he found a method of coping. Proud that he was shedding the emotional weight.
It was only when he put pen to paper that he was finally able to find the words he could never fully verbalize. Something magical happened with each ink stroke. Writing was therapeutic to him and the more he wrote, the deeper he found himself falling in love with process – the experience. It became his safe haven. A place he no longer had to hide parts of himself. A place he could freely be himself, both the beautiful and ugly parts that define him. Nobody was lurking within those pages looking to cast judgment. Nobody would read his inner most thoughts, dreams and secrets. And then it dawned on him. Because of this, nobody would ever fully know him. Nobody would ever fully understand him. If he kept all these things buried in a comp book, only accessible to his own eyes, was he cheating himself? Would he eventually become cold and distant, unable to relate to others? Would he be unable to connect to the world, to all humanity? Would he eventually die alone and unknown? Deep thoughts for a kid, but I had them. Yes, I’m that little boy I write about in 3rd person.
As time moved on, I found myself writing less and less...until I eventually didn’t pick up that pen. Although, it wasn’t because I had nothing to write about or that I no longer found writing to be therapeutic. It was because a few things happened in my life that I simply could not speak about, let alone write about. I couldn’t have proof of it lying around. Things like how my middle school gym teacher molested me and a few classmates, then got away with it. Or attempted to molest me? To this day, I’m still fuzzy on the facts because I’m not completely sure more happened than my mind will allow me to remember. I question whether or not my brain has blocked parts out for my own well being – a survival mechanism. One thing I haven’t forgot or blocked out, his face. I still see it crystal clear, the sound of his voice and vivid images of his filthy hands on me. By the way, he continued teaching in the school district for years to come! I had graduated and gone on to college when one day I saw him helping load kids onto their school bus. It took everything in my power not to throw up right then and there.
It wasn’t just that though. It was other things too. Things like an unimaginable black sadness, a complete sense of hopelessness, unbearable grief and overwhelming guilt. These were just a few of the things I couldn’t speak or write about. However, they were all I could think about. I began focusing on them so intensely that I had definitely lost sight of myself and was clueless as to what feeling happy actually was. I hadn’t felt happy for so long that happy actually became a foreign emotion to me. I could not find peace in anything, not even in pen and paper. It was so bad that I questioned whether or not even a small amount of happiness would ever be present in my life again.
I was barely 12-years-old when I became suicidal. A calm had come over me. After feeling like I was suffocating for so long, I could finally breathe again. I was choosing to end it all and I was at peace with that decision. If you’ve ever been there, you can relate to the feeling. My first attempt was immediately after school. I felt the most effective method would be to shoot myself. There was only one problem - we never had a handgun or any other type of firearm in our house. So shooting myself was scratched off the list. I thought about hanging myself, but I couldn’t find any rope in the garage. I even thought about ODing on some pills. However, that seemed lame to me. With my luck, I would just end up with a sick stomach that would need pumped at the hospital. The main goal here was to succeed. If I failed, not only would I have to live with that failure, but I would have to live in general. My family, my friends and my entire school would find out how messed up I was. I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t face the amount of humiliation that would come with not only feeling like a failure in life, but also having a failed suicide attempt tied to myself as well. At the time, in my eyes, the measure of a true failure was one who even failed when trying to kill himself.
I had stepped off the bus and walked straight into my parent’s kitchen. My Mom often complained that she never had a good, sharp set of knives. So I decided if I were to slice my wrists, I would need to put some muscle in it. I was clueless as to which was the best way to do it – to slice vertically or horizontally. I figured I would do both, just to make sure. I took out a steak knife that I usually ate dinner with and began digging it into my flesh. A small freckle became the bullseye and I used it as my marked target to begin. I stabbed the tip in and ran the serrated edged of the blade along my 12-year-old skin. I cut into the inner side of both arms. Multiple times. In all directions. Halfway up to my elbows. When the blood began to pour, all I thought about was it staining the countertop. I didn’t want my Mom to be angry at me for making a mess. For whatever reason, it never dawned on me that a blood stained countertop would be the least of her worries if I were lying lifeless on the kitchen floor when she arrived home from work.
I couldn’t see that far ahead. I couldn’t look rationally at the situation. I couldn’t foresee into the future as to what the impact of my actions would be on those that loved me. I guess I figured they would grieve, but I couldn’t fathom the tremendous turmoil I would throw my family in. All the unanswered questions I would leave them with. The guilt, the sadness, the anger. I wasn’t aware how they would harbor these emotions for years to come. I was ignorant to the fact that with just a few more slices, I would change their world forever…and I would end mine forever. It was a selfish act. A permanent solution to what I realize now looking back, were only temporary problems. During your pre-teen years, everything seems like the end of the world.
I suppose this is around the time most people have some sort of religious or spiritual awaking in their life. I however, returned to the basics. Back to what gave me comfort growing up. I began to write again, but not with pen and paper this time. I set the notebook aside and began a virtual notebook. I began the very blog you read now.
I would be liar if I said today I’m completely fine and I’m no longer haunted by suicidal thoughts. I’m able to maintain a perfectly normal life and I do find happiness in some things and certain people. I refused medication and I refused consoling. In fact, I was on Zoloft once in my early 20s and it had the total opposite effect, it made me more suicidal! Although now that I’m older, I’m more mature in how I view life. I think when my best friend/roommate committed suicide in college, THAT was my awakening. As warped as it may sound, wiping up his blood may have been a blessing in disguise for me. It made me realize that even though I hold life loosely, it is a precious gift. It made me realize that Michael’s choice to kill himself is something his family, friends and I all struggle with even to this day. It’s something that no matter how depressed or hopeless I mean feel, I will never allow my family and friends to endure the pain of my suicide. Some would say a failed suicide attempt is a silent scream for help. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was the helping hand of some unknown higher power that never granted my Mom’s wish for a new, sharp knife set on purpose. Perhaps this "higher power" could foresee the future of me in my adolescent years and wanted to prolong my future. As shocking as this story may be, what’s even more shocking is that to the naked eye, I don’t bare a single scar on either of my wrists or arms. Although to me, the scars are still visible. I see each and every cut, not as healed purple lines, but as fresh red wounds.
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