Silent Screams for Help

September 12, 2016
By Anonymous

I've never been very good at writing about myself, but this is a subject that needs addressing. It started as stupid names the other kids would call me, but with time it became so much worse. At the age of nine, I was being actively bullied on a daily basis; I had absolutely no self esteem. I couldn't even look in the mirror because I felt so ugly that I would start crying. I pushed everyone away; I didn’t want to talk to people because I knew I would get upset. And to an emotionally distraught preteen at the time, crying was a sign of weakness. I felt completely worthless and alone, and I hated myself for it.

Two years later and I was now twelve years old. Ever since I was a small child I had yearned for the gentle touch of a mother, anything to fill the hole in my heart. Then, in the summer of 2014, my prayers were answered, or so I though. The innocence of a child is remarkable, it allows you to see what you are shown and not question it. For my mother, that was exactly what she was relying on. After luring me in, her grip on me tightened like a vice. For a few weeks, everything was perfect. She was so warm and loving. But then, after seeing that I was sold on staying with her, she revealed her true intentions.

She preyed on my weakness, taking every advantage that she could. She started leaving me alone in a drug infested community to look after my three younger siblings. She was going out at night for longer, and longer periods. When she finally came back the next day, if at all, she had a guy with her; a different one every time. This was around the time when I started cutting. Those promises of a better life flew out the window at full force the second I saw who she really was. My depression skyrocketed, and severe anxiety followed with it. And with an average of two anxiety attacks a day, I began stealing pills from the kitchen to try and calm my nerves. With being forced to babysit all day while my mother was out partying or stripping, my grades in school declined so rapidly I didn’t know what was happening.

Before my eyes, I had become a completely different person. The once fun loving people’s person I was had become nothing but a shell. My body became consumed by the scars, I craved the cold touch of that old razor going across my wrist every second of the day. I remember one night at around maybe eleven o’clock, I had locked myself in the bathroom after another anxiety attacks. I quickly got out my razor from the wall cabinet and put it to my wrist, dragging back and forth so many times that I had lost count. There was blood streaming down my left forearm as I sank down to the ground trying so desperately to hold in the tears, to not scream out that I was dying inside. I don’t know if I would have been able to stop myself that night if it hadn’t been for my dog scratching at the door. She pushed her way into the bathroom, and started licking the tears off of my face and laid her head in my lap, as if trying to tell me that I wasn’t alone.

A few weeks later things quickly took a turn for the worst after a string of rumors started going around school that I was hooking up with someone behind the classrooms. I was very persistent with defending myself which, now that I look back at this, probably just added fuel to the fire. People started talking about me behind my back, calling me names like “ratchet” and a “s***.” I asked around for a bit and found out that someone that had been my best friend was the one behind them. I was in my morning pre algebra class when someone whirled around and asked me about the rumors, I told her that they weren’t true and the girl who started them was being a b****. Word got back to her and by the end of the day I was sitting in the principal’s office after getting into a fight with her.

The next year was eighth grade. I was hoping for a year without drama, but apparently, that was too much to ask. This time I was being bullied by someone that I didn’t even know. But instead of just harassing me, she tormented my friends as well. She followed my one of my friends home more than once. She used our size difference and her gang of friends to make my life a living hell. The rumors came back again, worse than ever. But instead of saying that I was sleeping around, one of her friends had said that my dad had touched me. This continued on for months until I finally snapped. I had lost all hope of life getting better, after after six unsuccessful suicide attempts, I managed to get a razor sharp enough to end it all.

On May 27, 2016 I was lying in bed, my mind going over a fight my mom and I had had earlier that day. The words of the people at school had poisoned my mind to the point of no return. I threw myself out of bed and began turning my room inside out in a desperate search for my razors. Anxiety set in after a fifteen minute search with still no relief in sight. I ran out into the kitchen and quickly dismantled a pencil sharpener. I grabbed the razors off the kitchen counter and went back to my room and got out a paper and a pen. Two years of pent of emotions, two years of physical and sexual harassment done by my mother and her several boyfriends came pouring out onto the paper.

I felt as if I was truly being honest when I introduced myself as the bisexual, genderfluid person that everybody abused, made fun of, and drove to the point of insanity. It was then that I accepted my fate, that I accepted the thought that my life would never be any better than what it was at that point in time. With one quick drag on the blade, my whole world disappeared, being drowned in the blood of the deepest cut I had ever done done. I don’t remember why but, I dragged myself out of that bed and to my mother’s room where she drove me to the hospital to get 14 staples put in my arm. On June 3, 2016 I was released from the hospital and went back to live with my grandparents.

It is now five years later and I am a straight a student. Even though I will never get back the happiness and academics that I missed in those two years in hell, I still have hope for the future. If anyone who stumbles upon this article is suffering from depression, or knows someone that is; save a life and call the National Suicide Hotline. Life may seem bleak now but, it honestly does get better. You just have to stay strong.

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