suicide help: Dangerous lines, dangerous lines. - Help.com

Dangerous lines, dangerous lines.

As I trace my way back to my first suicidal friend in 4th grade to when she asked me conversationally what i thought the best way to kill oneself was. I responded in my nine year old voice, “I think a gun”. Because i thought it would only hurt for a moment and be over. The thought of it had not yet consumed me. In fact, I had not even been exposed to the ugly and alluring truth that is suicide. Only in retrospect do I see the sadness in her eyes, the gentle way she broached the subject, the faint longing in her voice. I often wonder what happened to her.

Fast forward three years. Twelve and sitting in the unfinished basement of my mother’s house. Tears dripping off the freckled cheeks of my only white friend. I pat her back and whisper words of encouragement. The only way I knew to coax mouth to spill her secret into my willing arms. And out they dripped. And as the vision of her crushing an entire bottle of pills between her teeth and waking up covered in vomit was still fresh in my mind, i hear her whisper that she loves me. I don’t answer or question. We let it pass like a ship in the night, there and running full speed, but silent to the world.

Freshman year of high school almost over. Girl who knew only my first name calls me over in the hall. She moves a band from her wrists and exposes for my raw eyes her raw skin. Pierced and prodded by a saftey pin. “Look what i did last night” Poor pathetic girl. Your loving parents sent you to catholic school, swayed by your begging, returned you to public school. You have money and friends and yet you are tripping over yourself for attention.

Sophomore year, partner with a girl with piercing grey eyes in biology. I wish to stare at them forever, loose myself in their glimmering pools. To clip her choppy hair and wash her purple eye shadow and relish in the magnificent color. But her arm catches my eye as she distractedly pushes up one sleeve. Cuts, scars and scabs marked like ropes around her forearm. She sees me staring and quickly tugs the thunbhold in place. All i want is to hold her. Tell her she can tell me. But i am no longer 12 and she definatly doesn’t love me. She plagues my thoughts. I write her a poem about the flood that heals pain with pain. She smiles as she reads. “Do you?” My voice for once is steady and straight. Her beautiful eyes close. Her head nods. We don’t look at each other for the rest of lab. But my heart aches and my mind races.

I am 16. My mother’s boyfriend has turned her into a monster with 8 heads of different personality traits. The egg shells under my feet have all been broken and the light on the other side has dimmed. Voices of every person that hates me ring loud and true in my mind. The knife on the wrist is serrated. I never knew skin was so tough. With each pull and push i dig deeper. Hoping that at some point the lack of control i felt would fade away. It doesn’t but for that moment when blood emerged, i finally stop crying.
Days later, my mother sees my slitted arm and the head labeled maternity gets frightened and calls for backup. I will forever be known in my family as the emotional fuckwit. Complete with an uncle that is as insensitive enough to make fun of me every time the line in Iris sings “yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive”.

I am only 19. My thoughts have gone from hurt to kill. My faith is tired of fighting and my soul is withered. There is so much pain to yet to face. So much regret to have. So much life to endure. I pour a bottle of pills out on the hard wood floor. My little pieces of escape. They are the arms of the angel that never watched over me. They are the tokens of mercy in this play we deem worthy to call life. They are the tears that drip across my face as i wonder if one day I’ll be in my friend’s unfinished basement, telling her how grateful i am to be alive. My thoughts carry me through my life. i wonder if my 9 year old friend used the gun. If the pin pricks under the wrist band were healed and the body attached found reason. I dream of those torchered eyes and wondered if one day down the line if someone placed a poem about the art of escape in a bottle of pills if i would ever admit to the pain and suffering that my heart has gone through.
“in the arms of an angel, may you find some comfort here”.

This open post was written 5 months, 4 weeks ago | V/U/S: 174, 6, 5 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post

suicide, Self harm, story (How Tags Affect Reciprocity)

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