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In Need Of Some Repair.
I hate this place. I don’t want to be here anymore; and by “here” I mean my house, planet Earth, and certainly not high school. It’s nothing but a drama pit, or a lion’s den, where everyone’s just waiting to pounce. Your every motion is under constant surveillance. Your every thought is ripped from your head and morphed into something evil. You don’t know if your friends are actually your friends; or if they’re your enemies. It’s, to be cliché, a jungle out there. Three years here and I can’t wait to get out. The only thing I’ll miss about this prison is the few friends I’ve made and managed to keep.
These few friends; who’d become my pillars of strength, my cheerleaders, and my sidekicks, were sitting all around me at the lunch table. I was zoning out again; which lately, happens more and more. I don’t know how to control it, one minute I’m there and making jokes about the teachers, and the next I’m sitting in my bathroom, with my.
“Brittany? Hellooooo, anybody in there?”
Oh shit, that’d be Jo, she’s noticed.
“BRITTANY!” Jo (short for JoHannah) said, waving her hands in front of my face trying to get my attention.
“What Jo? I’m sitting right here, no need to yell.” I mumbled back to her, trying to hide embarrassment. Everyone at the table was staring.
“I asked you a question, did you hear it?”
“Umm, no. I’m sorry, could you say it again?”
“Where’s your head today? I saaaid, do you wanna see a movie with us this weekend?”
“Oh yeah; sure Jo, I’ll have to ask when I get home, but I’d love to.”
Of course my dad would say yes, he loves Jo. Speaking of Jo, she’s looking at me again; and she looks suspicious, like she can hear me thinking. I better smile and look like I’m paying attention. Just as Jo opens her mouth to say something else, the administrators blow their whistles dismissing this lunch period. It’s off to third period for me. Woohoo chemistry.
A full hour and a half, sitting in a classroom with my next door neighbor/best male friend/ ex-boyfriend. Yeah yeah; we’re complicated, but that’s a different story. I sit down at our usual lab table in the back, and he’s already sitting down, along with Emily and Brandon. He’s looking at me too, I start to worry to myself.. is there like something on my face? I mean shit, stop staring. Mr. Pitman calls the class to order, and we all turn to look at him. He asks for two out of the four students at each table to come up and get supplies for today’s lab. Emily and Brandon go.
“Lemme see and quick before they get back.” Alex says to me, not really even a question, just a straight demand.
“We’re in the middle of class Alex, I’m not gonna just pull up my sleeve, and show you my arm. People are going to think I’m weird.”
“Sweetheart, everyone already thinks your weird, but seriously, come on.” He says jokingly.
“Ha. And no. I’m clean, I told you that yesterday. If you don’t believe me, I will show you my arm, after school, when there’s nobody else around. Okay?” I snap at him, and turn my attention to my returning tablemates.
Oh god I really hope he doesn’t remember. Usually he’s too stoned after school to pay any attention to the girl next door, but there’s a first time for everything, right? Let’s just hope it’s not tonight. I really can’t deal with another scolding. Now I know I’m being vague here, but just let me get around to that story. I promise I’ll tell you, but you have to let me get through my last two periods and then every detail, is yours. You’ll know so much of the details, it might just sicken you.
Finally, home at last. I run to the bathroom and take care of that before going to the back door and letting my two Labrador Retrievers Max and Abbey out to take care of their own business. Now, I turn my attention to you. Before I tell you anything; know that I am telling you this in complete confidence. Which you might think is odd, because I have no idea who you are. But regardless of that fact; complete confidence. Is that understood? Yes? Okay then.
I’m currently suffering with a self-harm problem. Cutting, and cutting a lot. I have been dealing with this for a little while now. Let me guess, you’re currently thinking “WHY!? You seem so happy and care-free, I just don’t understand.” Well let me clear it up for you. A couple months ago, I went through a pretty bad breakup. I’m still not over it, or him and I don’t know how long it will be until I am. I’m not really the best person when it comes to dealing with my emotions. In fact; I’m downright horrible. I didn’t start cutting because of ‘him’ directly, I started cutting because I was bottling everything up. It probably doesn’t help that I have inherited my mother’s anger problems. Now I don’t know if you know this; but if you put two females, who have intense anger issues, under one roof, things are bound to get pretty… explosive. And that’s how they’ve been, since I was 5. No joke. And that’s how it happened. Mother who yells at me, for every little thing I’ve ever done wrong in my life + Still being in love with my ex, who hates me + no emotional outlet = seven pretty “X” shaped cuts on my left wrist.
When I think about cutting, there’s this warm little feeling, tingling in my hand. It’s hard to explain. You’d think that digging into your skin would hurt, especially when you do it over and over. But when you’ve reached the point in your life, where all you want is to feel something, anything at all, cutting is the best feeling in the world. You feel human again. The pain you should feel disappears behind a rush of adrenaline, and any pain you do happen to feel doesn’t last. It’s not until afterward that you actually feel anything, like the twinge you get when the hot water from the shower beats down on the scabs, the itch from when your body’s trying to heal; on the outside at least. It’s addictive, and a really hard habit to break. I’ve learned this the hard way.
The first time I cut, was November 17, 2009. Progress reports came out in school; and I was failing or in danger of failing most of my classes. I just didn’t care anymore. My mother and I got into an argument, about how I was never going to do anything with my life, because I was stupid and lazy and never did any of my school work. When I say ‘argument’ I really should say ‘lecture’ because there’s no room for me to get a word in, it’s all half words. My mother has a habit of backing me into a corner when we fight. It’s like a wild animal cornering their prey so it can’t escape. And that’s exactly what it feels like too, like any second she’s going to jump at me; teeth bared and tear me apart physically. She gets up in my face, and just goes at it. And that’s what happened that night. I finally just couldn’t take it. I got physically weak at the knees. So when she was done yelling I went into my room (crying), got my scissors out of my desk, pulled up my sleeve and cut. I cut several times, and in an “X” pattern, because it made it prettier. I cut and watched myself bleed as I cried. I cried because I’d just cut myself; I cried because I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore; I cried because I always cried; and I cried because I hated my mother.
My mother is usually a very pretty person, except for up close. She gets very ugly up close. You can tell she used to be a smoker from a lingering stench whenever she opens her mouth. With every word she says, she gets uglier and uglier. It’s gotten to the point, where I never want to be within five feet of her. Because that’s the danger zone, get within five feet of her when she’s angry and she’ll hit you. I’ve been backhanded at the dinner table, slapped by the staircase, choked in my very own bedroom. When I was younger, I’d say 6 or 7 I borrowed her colored pencils without asking, whoops. She sat on me and shoved what I think was a dirty sock… in my mouth. Hell just last week she dumped a glass of milk on me at the dinner table.
*knock knock knock*
Oh shit; Alex remembered. I guess story time’s over.
I get up to answer the door, and sure enough, there was Alex, higher than a damn kite. He walks in the door; without an invitation mind you; and says “it’s after school; show me your arm, now.”
Knowing I have no choice; I lift up the sleeve of my shirt on the left side, and show it to him, looking down at my feet. I glance upward for a quick second, he looks very angry with me. He just exhales and his shoulders kind of drop, he looks defeated. I’ve never felt more guilty about my cutting than I have right now. I’ve been cutting for a month and a half now. Nobody knows except for my best friend Shelby, and Alex. Not even hiding it from my family makes me feel guilty.
“Why, Brittany?” he asks me, not even really looking for an answer.
“Because I’m weak?” Is the only answer I can come up with. And it’s the only one that’s true. I AM weak. A stronger person than I would have told someone by now, a stronger person than I would have asked for help after the first cut. But no, I kept cutting, kept looking forward to the adrenaline rush. Kept looking forward to seeing my life’s blood dripping down my arm. I’m psychotic and I need help.