Look at you now, broken on the floor. You knew this was coming, in fact you counted the days. It was all planned out perfectly. You would die happy. But it’s not how you imagined it. Your mind continues to wander and the pain just keeps coming back. You wanted to die happy.  You wanted to go peacefully.

But wait.
        You can’t go yet.
                     We must venture back. Why did you become this way?

Let’s go back to when you were nine. You were so excited for your new school! You were so ready for new friends and a new teacher, you were going to be popular. But what you didn’t expect is just how cruel kids can really be, right? You didn’t expect to be shoved down the stairs on your first week, but not telling a soul because you just wanted friends. Mommy and Daddy were so confused by the bruises but just shoved them off assuming “She’s just a child, it’s from playing.” And even though you knew what it was, you always shut your mouth. But it never worked, did it? They never stopped. You always thought to yourself. Words of power and healing.
    It’ll get better.
    They will love me.
    They will accept me.
                             But did it?
Think back to when you were eleven. You broke your arm on the swing, but all they knew was that you just fell. But was that the real story? In your head, he was picking on you because he liked you. One day you two would be in love and married. Until he pushed you. You fell on your arm and snapped it in two. Was it then you realized he would never love you? Two years of torture. Two years of punishment. But for why? What did you do?

Then you found it.
          And you wept with it.
    And it wept with you.
            It would glide across your skin so perfectly.
    And it made you happy.
        For a little while.

You searched all across the internet.

Am I normal?
Am I sane?
I am normal.
I am sane.
You found websites that said pain helps with negative emotion. There was even studies to prove it, and you felt better. Your blade was your only friend. And you would turn to it nearly every day. And every time you would do it, you felt better. You felt happier and peaceful. You continued your search. You wanted answers.

Why am I like this?
  Are there people like me?
     Is this wrong?
       Am I wrong?
You found a study that put patients through pain as they monitored brain activity. It found that people who endure pain, have less negative emotion. The experiment held 12 test subjects that had a history of cutting and self-mutilation. The test subjects were made to feel pain while their brain activity was watched carefully.

You also found that your brain releases endorphins when you cut. You were so happy to discover it was ok. Everything was ok.

But then you fast forward to age 15. You slowly began to let go of the blade. You were in highschool, now. And you started to make friends. They all understood you and had the same issues. Their demons were your demons. You finally had people. But then what happened?

They began to leave you.
And move on.

You were terrified and didn’t know what to do. You wanted to die. You were alone, once again. And instead of him, you found medicine. You started sneaking into your mother’s room to steal her sleeping pills and painkillers. You would take as many as you could, and seeing as she worked as a nurse and got free samples, there was no issue in running out. You started with Ambien. Taking multiple at once just to finally fall asleep. But then you’d wake up miserable. And want it all to be over.

Did you want it all to end?

You started taking more than just Ambien. You took multiple pills at once. How many was it in one day? Ten in the matter of 3 hours? Ten different medications. Did you even know what they were? I thought not.

You were so close to death.
  But nothing happened.
You would go home and hide your packet of pills. Then go to school with a whole new stash. You told only one person of your habit. And soon the world knew. You would be called to the office once a week because people accused you of selling narcotics. You would be called a pill popper and drug addict. When really all you wanted was to die.

You knew how peacefully pills allowed you to go.
You’re supposed to just fall asleep.
 
It said online that sleeping medication would do the trick just fine. You know most people attempt suicide by sleep medication right? Your attempt would be useless because the medications have been made less deadly. But you didn’t know that. You didn’t know about the studies on sleeping suicides and the fact that doctors don’t give out strong enough doses to kill you.

But you did it anyways.
You just weren’t strong enough.

You slowly wrote your letter telling mommy and daddy it wasn’t their fault. You held your tears down and wrote to your family telling them how much you loved them and sorry you are. You then went into your mother’s room. You made sure to steal a lot from dear little mommy and snuck back into your room. Then one by one you took those 17 little blue pills. One by one you swallowed down your sorrow. And then as you heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, you jumped in your bed and pretended to sleep, clutching that paper you so lovingly wrote on. Your mother and father came in and turned on the light, waiting patiently for you to acknowledge them, but your mind was already slipping away. 17 tiny blue pills, swimming around in your stomach. 17 tiny blue pills, stealing their daughter away right before their eyes. Your mom sat down next to you and saw the paper clutch in your arms. She saw the tears streaming down your face. And she took the paper and began to read she started shaking. You could feel it against your back. You could now barely hear them as your father called an ambulance and your mother held you tight in her arms. But it was wrong. The life wasn’t slipping away. And do you know why?

Stupid little girl.

The pills weren’t strong enough to take your life. 9 days in a mental hospital and 2 years of bills. And was it worth it? Did it truly make you happy?