Now, I know this is long. I don’t expect you to read it. But this is just for me to show you my mind. Enjoy.
Well. I’m not really used to posting my thoughts on the internet, but I figured why not try? Hah, even though thats the mindset that got me into this. Anyway, I started SI when I was in 3rd grade, but it only really became a part of my life in 6th grade. My mom has been depressed since 2 months after I was born. I don’t know how this effected me though because I don’t remember her that well. I was raised by neighbors, teachers, and nannies. My parents are divorced and I reside with my step-dad, karl, and my mother(hopefully this will change soon). I visit my dad and his girlfriend… erm fiance now, Kerry, in their small house with 8(used to be 9) cats. I worry about my dad; I always have dreams where he dies which increases the worry. I don’t know why I do, it might be that he deserves so much more than he gets and I fear the worst. I feel like I have to prevent anything bad from happening. And I fall into this panic frenzy when I mess up something that has to do with dear old dad. Anxiety stings me to see him disapointed in me. Now, my mom… Depressed, insane, sweet, good at guilting me, but just… Insane. Like a mom naturally is, but still… She changed so much after Karl came around. Karl can be nice, but he thinks he’s so much better than everyone else. He just makes me feel like dirt. The thing with step-parents is that they shouldn’t do the parenting. He’s not my dad. He never will be and I know thats so cliche. It’s in every disney movie with an absent parent. It’s cheesey and annoying but true. It just causes conflict. It’s nice though because he’s never around but when he comes back it’s hell. The first thing he’ll talk about is how dirty the house is, it’s like he expects me to be scrubbing the floors when he walks into the house. Just little stuff that he does make me feel like dirt. Worthless.
Now onto me. I’ve been deep in depression since 3rd grade. No friends in my grade, a fascination with being different. I didn’t care how I looked. I didn’t care about the latest toy or sugared cereal or who won kickball. I was thinking. Writing. Imagining. I always stayed secluded in my mind. Sure I wasn’t the prettiest kid but I didn’t think it was important. So I was ridiculed. Harassed none stop. School was unbearable. Life at home wasn’t great either. Even when I was in a big room full of people, I was always alone. I thought dreams were reality and reality was a dream. Anyway, when I couldn’t sleep I would come downstairs and think seriously about hurting myself. I didn’t know there was a name for it. I thought I was being creative. Although I could get myself to actual injure my little third grade self, I couldn’t ever just finnish it. So suicidal and self mutilating at 3rd grade I decided to try to stop the harassment. I molded myself to fit in. I hid all thoughts, ideas, everything. I couldn’t hide from myself all the time so I usually came back to haunt myself in my dreams. Horrific sights filled my mind and I would wake up in sweat every night. Things started evening out in 5th grade, untill I deicided I was fat after hearing it all of my life. I wouldn’t eat. I just felt worthless, like if I wasn’t a skeleton I wasn’t good enough. I just wanted to fit in. I thought I HAD to be perfect.
Then 6th grade my mind became a sea of navy blue. A pit where I fell and still haven’t returned. I began to hurt myself whenever something went wrong. I wrote exactly 137 pages worth of poetry that year(later to be deleted). I hid from any problem I had just covering my mind. After all it was better than the same blue all the time. I slipped further and further untill I decided I had enough and vowed to “quit”. I later figured out that you don’t quit. You can take long vacations, but quitting is way different. The need will always be there. So while I took a vacation from tools and never ending pain I numbed myself. With any pain meds I could get my hands on. I kept taking and taking untill one night my back was in sooo much pain. I researched the affects of ODing and it said severe back pains. I stopped imediately and told my mom I needed depressions meds. Even with the meds I felt no better, probably because I still took a little which I figured out only last night counteracts the anti-depressant. My parents have taken everything away from me, thinking I’m too fragile. Anything that can distract me from sleep. See what parents don’t get about SI, is that the SI isn’t the problem. Any addiction isn’t the problem. Parents think that if you “cure” the injuring you cure your child. But those aren’t the roots of the problem. Merely ramifactions caused by the problem. It’s something emotional… something else.