WARNING: THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS SENSITIVE MATERIAL

I had just turned 13 when things had started getting bad. I guess I’m no different than any other teenager; we all go through dark times in our lives. What upset me the most is that I needed to get myself almost killed before I finally realized how foolish I’ve been.
I can honestly say I can’t remember what started it all. The events all seem like a blur now. All I know is it started with a few dark drawings, which turned into depression, which turned into self-harm, and finally, near-suicide.

I had been struggling with self-esteem and appearance issues for a while now. My teeth were crooked, my hairstyle wasn’t exactly attractive, and my weight problem only worsened the case. I was pretty much the “reject” of the class. I guess I was given some slack though. The girls didn’t even notice me half the time; the boys, however, were another story. They constantly picked on me, threw me spitballs in class, called me names like “cow”, “freak”, “emo”… To put it simply, they treated me like a spawn of hell.

I had started drawing dark things to get the steam out of me. Things like scythes, crosses, pitchforks, skulls and bones, angel wings, knifes, blades, blood… to name a few. Unfortunately for me, my parents were beginning to feel pretty concerned of what I was drawing and writing. I kept telling them it was just for fun… but I suddenly found myself plunging deeper and deeper into the dark side.

My best friend had a different perspective of my creations. She knew I was having a hard time, but when she saw me creating those things, she took the drawings and shred them to bits. I was furious. I screamed at her and would have probably hit her if we weren’t on school grounds. It was like I somehow connected myself to the things I wrote and drew out. My friend threatened me to stop drawing those things. So I did. Unfortunately, I found an even worse way to cope.

January 2008, I was constantly feeling pressure from my mother to get my grades up. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for how much progress I had done in my Math class. My mother, however, expected more of me. It was like anything I did it wasn’t ever good enough for her, or my dad. One night, after they had chewed me out, I ran to my room and broke down as grabbed a pair of scissors, and slashed at my wrist. I was scared- no, terrified of what would happen. I wasn’t sure how sharp the blade was, and I was afraid that I would go too far. Luckily even after slashing five times the blade only left minimum results. The scars looked more like cat claw scratches than blade cuts.

For the following eight months I continued with the cutting; only on occasion, however. I remember only doing it around 4 or 5 times in total. Unfortunately the last time I did it, it left a deep, nasty scar, which is still slightly visible even after two years. I wore wrist-bands to hide the scars while I was at school. I guess my classmates were confused as to why I wore them during gym class. It only hid the scars for so long, though. I can’t even begin to describe how ashamed and cruel I felt when my mother noticed my left wrist cut up…

I told her that day that I would stop, but I never promised anything.
Things went like a roller-coaster from then on. At times I was as happy as can be, other times I felt like I had just hit rock bottom. One day, at school, I was already having a bad day, and a jerk-wad in my class just had to keep teasing me. I took as many blows as I could take. Sooner or later, I snapped. I got up and ran out of the class, heading for the girls lavatory. There, I took out a small container out of my purse and chugged down 20 grams of aspirin (40 pills, to be precise). I stayed there for about 5 to 10 minutes, and decided to go home, since I wasn’t feeling well (obviously…).

I took a nap once home. My dad simply suspected I had caught the flu when I started vomiting constantly. I felt dizzy, tired, my insides felt like they were on fire, and my heart ached with regret and shame. I figured it would go away soon, but I knew I couldn’t take the chance. I wasn’t ready to die yet. Honestly, I was never aiming for suicide; I simply wanted something to take the pain away…

At around seven o’clock, I finally found the courage to tell my mother what had happened. I was rushed to the hospital immediately. It all seems like a dream, or an illusion, now. I can only remember the doctors rushing to get blood samples from me, pricking me everywhere with needles. I remember not being able to look my mother in the eyes when the nurses plugged me up to a bunch of machines. The poison had already gotten into my bloodstream, at least that’s what I overheard one of the nurses say. I wasn’t sure what to think then. All that was going through my head were thoughts of my friends and family.

What will they think? Will I ever see them again? Will they ever speak to me again?

That was all that went in my mind.

I suddenly felt myself growing tired. My heart started racing, and I wasn’t sure if I was simply tired and falling asleep, or if it was the result of my actions. If it was the latter, I knew I was likely not going to survive the night…


I survived.


I could consider myself lucky. If I hadn’t told my mother I probably would have passed away that very night. Either that or I would have lived a miserable life, due to the poison messing up my system. I would have probably lost my family’s trust, my friends… everything…

I am now 16, have started my junior year, and living a happy life. Even though these past events still haunt me, I know I can always count on my friends and my family to be there if I need them.

I made a lot of mistakes in my life; now I live to make up for those mistakes and trying to prove that I deserve a second chance.

Doesn’t everybody do?