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reflection back to 15
I remember the first time I laid my eyes on a razor blade and realizing what it was meant for. I was thirteen, watching a movie with older two neighbor girls. Ironically enough, the movie was called Thirteen. My perspective in the world changed in a single movement. I watched the girl on the television screen take the razor and cut a line into her wrist. It wasn’t the cut or the blood that changed me, it was the breath she let out after the cut, like everything haunting her was released. I wondered to myself, can I do that? How had I never heard of this act before, I didn’t even know it had a name. I never knew that scene would alter my life so drastically.
It wasn’t until January or February of my fifteen year on this planet that I finally took it upon myself to try this weird ritual called cutting. I knew something wasn’t right inside me on Christmas day. Instead of wanting to connect with my family, laughing and enjoying their company, I had no desire to be around anyone. I wanted to spend that day alone, which is exactly what I did. I spent Christmas in my parent’s bed, staring blankly at the TV, feeling like a black hole had swallowed me. Unlike most, my parents accepted my cries for help but like most I was given medication and started therapy for the treatment of the dreaded DEPRESSION.
At fifteen I didn’t have a clear understanding as to what was going on with the chemicals in my brain and why I suddenly felt like a different person. Other Emily. That’s what I call her. Yes, I am fully aware she is me and no I don’t become her. She’s always been there, it was only then that I felt her leaking from my pores.
I remember the pain that choked me like nothing I could describe. I deep ache inside myself, my chest, my brain, my entire being. I needed a way to get it out, to express this madness inside me. I remember the first time I chose to cut. I don’t remember the circumstances. I used a small kitchen knife and made two small lines across my left wrist. That first cut, changed me forever, and began a battle I was not ready for. For those who can’t fathom the idea of hurting oneself, let me help explain. Certain people, myself included, see cutting as a way of turning emotional and non-tangible pain into something physical, something that could be seen. In my own experience I felt as though the pain was going to tear me to pieces if it wasn’t released. So that first cut let out all the pain I was feeling in that moment and for a short time I felt relieved, I felt at peace. However, the problem with cutting is once you start, it is incredibly difficult to stop.
I went on cutting through most of my high school career. When a situation became too much to handle I would feel the need to hurt myself. Like so many others, I also used cutting the punish myself. Well, after a while my parents and sister noticed my wrist and I began cutting in the shower to hide the blood and razor. I would cut on my ankle, my thighs, or the side of my foot. Cutting has a great deal to do with shame, to this day my scars are still an embarrassment to me. After a while my pain began to grow and cutting did very little to help ease that ache. I never contemplated suicide in that I wanted to die or no longer exist, I remember simply wanting to sleep, to just get away from it all. I can’t tell you the month of my first suicide attempt because I do not remember it myself. What I do remember of that day is limited.
At the young age of fifteen, on a week night if I remember correctly, I has decided I wanted to sleep for a while, I never thought about death, just sleep. I went into the mirror cabinet over the sink in my parent’s bathroom and took two handfuls, about sixty to eighty ibuprofen, and swallowed them. I remember taking them and nothing happening for a while. If my memory is right, I went to sleep either for the whole night or just a nap but I do remember waking up and vomiting harshly for at least an hour. By that time my parents and sister had come to see what was wrong with me. I have little memory from that point on, I was much disoriented. I couldn’t’ stand up or even hold my head up right without using my hand. One moment will stay with me forever. I had turned my head on the toilet to look at my mom and sister and my mom asked me the hardest question a mother can ask her child. She asked, “Em, did you take something?” and I replied with a nod and she asked what and I explained. Her and my sister began to cry but the word I remember my mom repeating was “why”, why why why would you do that. My sister was incredibly angry at me for wanting to leave her, she was only thirteen at the time and had little information about my depression.
Like I said my memory of this night is fuzzy. I know my mother called my grandmother and told her what had happened and that my sister had to come stay the night. I remember my dad holding me up and helping me walk to the car to go to the ER. I couldn’t sit in the car, I had to lay down on the seat, my head felt so heavy. I have no recollection of the drive or arrival to the ER. I have the shortest clip in my head of myself sitting in a wheelchair, waiting for a room. I remember I felt like I would be sick again but I couldn’t walk so I crawled across the floor to the bathroom and stayed there. A short time later, I must have fallen asleep, I woke up on a bed, in a dark room with my mom next to me. She worked at the hospital we were at and took me to an empty room until I was admitted. Once admitted, I was given an IV of fluids and they took a scan of my stomach and intestines to make sure there was no serious damage. By some miracle, my internal organs were fine.
It wasn’t until January or February of my fifteen year on this planet that I finally took it upon myself to try this weird ritual called cutting. I knew something wasn’t right inside me on Christmas day. Instead of wanting to connect with my family, laughing and enjoying their company, I had no desire to be around anyone. I wanted to spend that day alone, which is exactly what I did. I spent Christmas in my parent’s bed, staring blankly at the TV, feeling like a black hole had swallowed me. Unlike most, my parents accepted my cries for help but like most I was given medication and started therapy for the treatment of the dreaded DEPRESSION.
At fifteen I didn’t have a clear understanding as to what was going on with the chemicals in my brain and why I suddenly felt like a different person. Other Emily. That’s what I call her. Yes, I am fully aware she is me and no I don’t become her. She’s always been there, it was only then that I felt her leaking from my pores.
I remember the pain that choked me like nothing I could describe. I deep ache inside myself, my chest, my brain, my entire being. I needed a way to get it out, to express this madness inside me. I remember the first time I chose to cut. I don’t remember the circumstances. I used a small kitchen knife and made two small lines across my left wrist. That first cut, changed me forever, and began a battle I was not ready for. For those who can’t fathom the idea of hurting oneself, let me help explain. Certain people, myself included, see cutting as a way of turning emotional and non-tangible pain into something physical, something that could be seen. In my own experience I felt as though the pain was going to tear me to pieces if it wasn’t released. So that first cut let out all the pain I was feeling in that moment and for a short time I felt relieved, I felt at peace. However, the problem with cutting is once you start, it is incredibly difficult to stop.
I went on cutting through most of my high school career. When a situation became too much to handle I would feel the need to hurt myself. Like so many others, I also used cutting the punish myself. Well, after a while my parents and sister noticed my wrist and I began cutting in the shower to hide the blood and razor. I would cut on my ankle, my thighs, or the side of my foot. Cutting has a great deal to do with shame, to this day my scars are still an embarrassment to me. After a while my pain began to grow and cutting did very little to help ease that ache. I never contemplated suicide in that I wanted to die or no longer exist, I remember simply wanting to sleep, to just get away from it all. I can’t tell you the month of my first suicide attempt because I do not remember it myself. What I do remember of that day is limited.
At the young age of fifteen, on a week night if I remember correctly, I has decided I wanted to sleep for a while, I never thought about death, just sleep. I went into the mirror cabinet over the sink in my parent’s bathroom and took two handfuls, about sixty to eighty ibuprofen, and swallowed them. I remember taking them and nothing happening for a while. If my memory is right, I went to sleep either for the whole night or just a nap but I do remember waking up and vomiting harshly for at least an hour. By that time my parents and sister had come to see what was wrong with me. I have little memory from that point on, I was much disoriented. I couldn’t’ stand up or even hold my head up right without using my hand. One moment will stay with me forever. I had turned my head on the toilet to look at my mom and sister and my mom asked me the hardest question a mother can ask her child. She asked, “Em, did you take something?” and I replied with a nod and she asked what and I explained. Her and my sister began to cry but the word I remember my mom repeating was “why”, why why why would you do that. My sister was incredibly angry at me for wanting to leave her, she was only thirteen at the time and had little information about my depression.
Like I said my memory of this night is fuzzy. I know my mother called my grandmother and told her what had happened and that my sister had to come stay the night. I remember my dad holding me up and helping me walk to the car to go to the ER. I couldn’t sit in the car, I had to lay down on the seat, my head felt so heavy. I have no recollection of the drive or arrival to the ER. I have the shortest clip in my head of myself sitting in a wheelchair, waiting for a room. I remember I felt like I would be sick again but I couldn’t walk so I crawled across the floor to the bathroom and stayed there. A short time later, I must have fallen asleep, I woke up on a bed, in a dark room with my mom next to me. She worked at the hospital we were at and took me to an empty room until I was admitted. Once admitted, I was given an IV of fluids and they took a scan of my stomach and intestines to make sure there was no serious damage. By some miracle, my internal organs were fine.
