Dirty Little Secret

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The walls of the loft, my room, are too happy of a blue that it almost feels as if they are mocking me. Laughing as the tears, gasps, and hics escape my quivering lips. They make me self-conscious so I run to my closet and hide from them, slamming the door shut and falling to the carpet. The tears pour faster, just as a waterfall rushes in the spring time. No one can see them; no one can hear them, and no one can feel the undying pain that hides behind my bloodshot eyes.

With every slash I make it feels like I’m lifting the weight of the world up and away from my body. The emotional pain slowly dying and replaced with the pleasurable, physical pain I need to get me through the week; adding a few here and there. I’m conscious about my “tattoos” and very aware of what will happen if someone sees them. I know I’ll be institutionalized, given Prozac, and talk to a therapist weekly, but I don’t care. Just being able to ease the pain, for even a second, is enough for me.

Half an hour turns into an hour and an hour becomes two until I’m able to pull myself together and leave my closet. I walk to my bathroom and wipe my mascara covered cheeks with a cold towel, adverting my eyes from the mirror. The last thing I need is to see how bad my face looks, to call myself more names and end up running back to my secluded haven. So I keep my mind busy by doing my “tattoo” math.
It takes about a half hour to an hour for my face to cool down and the redness to vanish; I have Band Aids in my dresser drawer and next to it is Neosporin so the cuts don’t get infected. And if for some reason they don’t heal fully, I have scar healer in the bathroom under the sink. And it’s fall now so no one will think much of long sleeves, but if for some reason it is ridiculously hot out, because The Ohio Weather Goddess is Bi Polar, I have a bunch of tight bracelets to put over them. There’s not too many on my wrist and they’re not that deep, so they should heal or at the very least be less noticeable in about a week.
Satisfied, I go through my plan at a snail's pace, soaking in the quiet. No one’s home so I’m not worried about anyone stomping up the stairs to yell at me for not doing the dishes or for forgetting to talk to my teacher. All I have to do is enjoy the stinging feeling when I put the rubbing alcohol on the cuts, drifting deeper and deeper until it takes me over. My whole body shutters with the familiarity of this feeling that has come oh so many times before.
When I finally finish, about fifteen minutes has passed and I take another five to admire my bandage work. Slipping out of my school clothes, I change into my bright red Ohio State shirt, which just happened to be long-sleeved, and take a deep breath before I walk by the mirror near my bed. I stand in front of it, staring at my feet and working my way up until my eyes find where the shirt ends at my thighs. Ever so slowly I get to my face; blue eyes stare back at me, emotion lost somewhere far behind them, and my curly blond hair framing my clear pale face.
It looks as though nothing has changed. It looks like I’m a just a normal teenage girl, ready for bed and a fun filled tomorrow. It looks. It looks. It LOOKS, but that’s not how it is! I’m trapped in this home, locked in my tower with no way out! I look happy, but inside is a girl waiting to explode! Remove my clothes and you’ll see self-inflicted scars from the past four years! Wrists, arms, thighs, and legs; they’re everywhere!
So I turn from the mirror, rage now in me, and take two Benadryl. Without them I’m unable to sleep and will wake up every hour on the hour. I get in my stuffed animal covered bed and turn the television on, falling asleep to the sound of Cartman and Kyle fighting about something stupid Cartman did.





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