The Saints Of Mibba
I Guess I'm Selfish
I haven't lived a horrible life. Sure, I've it a few rough spots here and there, but over all its been pretty good.
So I guess I'm just selfish then.
The story begins at age 6.
Its approximately 11:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I am in religion class and they teacher is telling us about an incident. An incident that I'm sure you've all heard about. This Saturday just so happens to be September 15th, 2001 and the teacher is explaining what happened merely five days earlier. The incident that pulled children all over the U.S. out of school for the day, the young ones jumping for joy about it as the adults cry about the events happening nearby. Too nearby. For some its across the country, others the next state over, others the next town over, others down the street, and for the unlucky ones, they're in the middle of it. Some people could see the smoke from they're bedroom window. Some people knew people who were in World Trade Center on that fateful morning. Some people knew people who never made it out. She mentioned to us that adults and children alike had been inside the Twin Towers when the first plane crashed into the North face of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she finished the story. A little boy, who I can't for the life of me remember the name of; the race of; the face of, raises his hand and silently waits to be called on as he sits cross-legged on the scratchy colorful carpet.
"Yes?" the teacher asked, wiping tears off her cheeks with one hand while motioning towards the small first grader with the other.
"Did the kids go to heaven?" he asked her, slowly lowering his arm.
After thinking for a moment, she replied. "Yes," she said, "Yes they did. All children go to heaven. No child has yet made it to the point in their lives where they can rightfully be blamed for their mistakes, so every child has the right to go to heaven."
That was the day my obsession started. My obsession with death. My obsession with my death. My obsession with going to heaven. I decided I wanted to die while it was still guaranteed I would make it to heaven. While it was still guaranteed I wouldn't fuck up.
While other girls planned their weddings; with white fluffy dresses, bright pink flowers, and prince charming; I planned my death; with sharp knives, deep water, and small pills of all colors. I thought about it, but never put the thoughts to actions.
Until one particular day.
I was approximately 8 years old. My best friend and I had gotten into a particularly bad fight. I decided no one would miss me anyway, so it was time. It was time to go to heaven.
I walked into bright yellow kitchen and took a sharp knife from the drawer; one of the knives that I was forbidden to touch, but I was about to die anyway, so what did I care?
I held the wooden handle in both hands and raised the knife so that the point was barely touching my skin, just above my belly button. As I drew my arms away from me and brought the back fast and strong to plunge the shiny metal blade into my stomach, my mom burst into the room, grocery bags in her arms.
"JULIA!" she screamed, dropping all the bags to her feet and running to me, pulling me into her arm as I dropped the knife, letting it fall to the ground, clattering against the yellow tile. I sobbed into my mother's shoulder as she held me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, trying to calm me. She brought me to my room and lay me on my bed, brushing a brunette curl out of my face. She sat at the end of my bed and cried as she watched me slowly drift off to sleep.
I didn't bring up my little obsession to anyone until I was 10.
"Hey, Kristen?" I asked from where I was sitting on the cold linoleum floor, leaning up against the equally cold blue metal locker as my best friend at the time pulled books from her locker, one by one, and stuffed them into her baby blue backpack.
"Yeah?" she replied, glancing down at me before resuming her actions.
"Could I tell you something?" I asked again, chewing on my lip. I wasn't sure if I should do this, but I was going to regardless.
"Anything," she said without hesitation.
"I want to die." I stated simply.
"W-what?" she stuttered, completely stopping what she was doing in the midst of grabbing another book.
"I want to die," I repeated, this time my voice cracking as my eyes watered. All her stuff fell to the floor as she dropped to her knees beside me, cradling me in her arms as I sobbed uncontrollably.
"Julia, oh Julia," she whispered, "Julia."
I tried to commit suicide again when I was 11.
I drew the bath and quickly stripped myself of my clothes. When the water was deep enough, I lowered myself into the water. After a few minutes of just soaking, I plunged underneath, holding myself under. Thirty seconds past and my lungs began to ache from breath deprivation. One minute past and my senses began to go numb. One minute and thirty seconds past and I began to squirm, fighting against myself to let myself breath. Two minutes past and I began to feel faint. This is it, I thought, I'm drowning. I'm dieing. I'm finally dieing. Just then there was a knock on the door. My eyes opened immediately and I panicked.
"Julia? Are you OK in there?" I heard my mom ask as the bathroom door opened. Come on death. Hurry up. Take me already. I'm here, now take me. Just take me. She drew back the curtain and screamed as she pulled my limp body from the icy cold water, my lips blue as I sputtered, lungs filling with air. "Why do you do this Julia? Why? Please tell me, why?" she mumbled into my wet hair. All I could do was cry. Cry and cry and cry.
This isn't supposed to hurt anyone. No one is supposed to care. I'm such a fuck up. I'm just a fuck up.
I told someone again when I was 12, about to turn 13. Six months ago. I had just gotten into a fight with my friend about my true emotions. The ones I hide behind fake smiles and pointless lies. She ended it with a statement that was, to me, like a punch in the stomach.
"That's the problem Julia! No one ever knows what you're really feeling, what you're really thinking! And know it's really starting to kill me!" she said, before signing off of AIM. I read the message ten times before my mind responded. Sobs shook my body as tears blurred my vision. The computer beeped and an IM window popped up.
Maddie: Heyy
Me: Hi
Maddie: Whats up?
Me: Carly and I had a fight over something stupid and now I can't stop crying
Maddie: Aww, why?
Me: Because Carly made me realize how I just bottle up all my feelings and then pour them out at one person, always at the wrong time and I hate what it does to not only me but everyone around me
Maddie: Oh, honey
Me: "That's the problem Julia! No one ever knows what you're really feeling, what you're really thinking! And know it's really starting to kill me!" that's the last thing she said
Maddie: =[
Me: She's right though. And I wish she hadn't signed off because she's the first person to realize how bad it is. More than anyone else. Including myself. Especially myself.
Maddie: Jules, it's ok.
Me: I'm suicidal. I've only ever told one person before
Maddie: How did you try?
Me: I've tried stabbing myself and I've tried drowning myself
Maddie: While we're being honest, you know those cuts on my arms from when I fell into a pricker bush?
Me: Yeah..
Maddie: They're not from falling in a pricker bush.
I cut for the first time four months ago, just after I turned 13. Kristen and I had gotten into a huge fight and I just couldn't take the pressure. For the next 2 and a half months I cut almost every night until one day I decided that I would stop, simply to prove to myself that I could. And I did. I haven't cut for roughly two months and I've never been more proud of myself. I'm happier than I've ever been.
After seven years of suicidal thoughts, five years of attempted suicides, and two months of cutting I have finally ended my long obsession with dieing and I'm finally semi-happy. But I still hate myself. I should be happy. I have a home. Food. Clothes. I have so many things that others would kill for, that I should be happy. But I'm not as happy as I should be. So I'm not a hero, I'm not a saint, I'm nothing you want to be. I'm just a 13 year old girl who cries too much, lies too much, falls in love too easily, has an obsession with death, and wants to die.
I guess I'm just selfish, but at least I'm something.
So I guess I'm just selfish then.
The story begins at age 6.
Its approximately 11:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I am in religion class and they teacher is telling us about an incident. An incident that I'm sure you've all heard about. This Saturday just so happens to be September 15th, 2001 and the teacher is explaining what happened merely five days earlier. The incident that pulled children all over the U.S. out of school for the day, the young ones jumping for joy about it as the adults cry about the events happening nearby. Too nearby. For some its across the country, others the next state over, others the next town over, others down the street, and for the unlucky ones, they're in the middle of it. Some people could see the smoke from they're bedroom window. Some people knew people who were in World Trade Center on that fateful morning. Some people knew people who never made it out. She mentioned to us that adults and children alike had been inside the Twin Towers when the first plane crashed into the North face of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she finished the story. A little boy, who I can't for the life of me remember the name of; the race of; the face of, raises his hand and silently waits to be called on as he sits cross-legged on the scratchy colorful carpet.
"Yes?" the teacher asked, wiping tears off her cheeks with one hand while motioning towards the small first grader with the other.
"Did the kids go to heaven?" he asked her, slowly lowering his arm.
After thinking for a moment, she replied. "Yes," she said, "Yes they did. All children go to heaven. No child has yet made it to the point in their lives where they can rightfully be blamed for their mistakes, so every child has the right to go to heaven."
That was the day my obsession started. My obsession with death. My obsession with my death. My obsession with going to heaven. I decided I wanted to die while it was still guaranteed I would make it to heaven. While it was still guaranteed I wouldn't fuck up.
While other girls planned their weddings; with white fluffy dresses, bright pink flowers, and prince charming; I planned my death; with sharp knives, deep water, and small pills of all colors. I thought about it, but never put the thoughts to actions.
Until one particular day.
I was approximately 8 years old. My best friend and I had gotten into a particularly bad fight. I decided no one would miss me anyway, so it was time. It was time to go to heaven.
I walked into bright yellow kitchen and took a sharp knife from the drawer; one of the knives that I was forbidden to touch, but I was about to die anyway, so what did I care?
I held the wooden handle in both hands and raised the knife so that the point was barely touching my skin, just above my belly button. As I drew my arms away from me and brought the back fast and strong to plunge the shiny metal blade into my stomach, my mom burst into the room, grocery bags in her arms.
"JULIA!" she screamed, dropping all the bags to her feet and running to me, pulling me into her arm as I dropped the knife, letting it fall to the ground, clattering against the yellow tile. I sobbed into my mother's shoulder as she held me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, trying to calm me. She brought me to my room and lay me on my bed, brushing a brunette curl out of my face. She sat at the end of my bed and cried as she watched me slowly drift off to sleep.
I didn't bring up my little obsession to anyone until I was 10.
"Hey, Kristen?" I asked from where I was sitting on the cold linoleum floor, leaning up against the equally cold blue metal locker as my best friend at the time pulled books from her locker, one by one, and stuffed them into her baby blue backpack.
"Yeah?" she replied, glancing down at me before resuming her actions.
"Could I tell you something?" I asked again, chewing on my lip. I wasn't sure if I should do this, but I was going to regardless.
"Anything," she said without hesitation.
"I want to die." I stated simply.
"W-what?" she stuttered, completely stopping what she was doing in the midst of grabbing another book.
"I want to die," I repeated, this time my voice cracking as my eyes watered. All her stuff fell to the floor as she dropped to her knees beside me, cradling me in her arms as I sobbed uncontrollably.
"Julia, oh Julia," she whispered, "Julia."
I tried to commit suicide again when I was 11.
I drew the bath and quickly stripped myself of my clothes. When the water was deep enough, I lowered myself into the water. After a few minutes of just soaking, I plunged underneath, holding myself under. Thirty seconds past and my lungs began to ache from breath deprivation. One minute past and my senses began to go numb. One minute and thirty seconds past and I began to squirm, fighting against myself to let myself breath. Two minutes past and I began to feel faint. This is it, I thought, I'm drowning. I'm dieing. I'm finally dieing. Just then there was a knock on the door. My eyes opened immediately and I panicked.
"Julia? Are you OK in there?" I heard my mom ask as the bathroom door opened. Come on death. Hurry up. Take me already. I'm here, now take me. Just take me. She drew back the curtain and screamed as she pulled my limp body from the icy cold water, my lips blue as I sputtered, lungs filling with air. "Why do you do this Julia? Why? Please tell me, why?" she mumbled into my wet hair. All I could do was cry. Cry and cry and cry.
This isn't supposed to hurt anyone. No one is supposed to care. I'm such a fuck up. I'm just a fuck up.
I told someone again when I was 12, about to turn 13. Six months ago. I had just gotten into a fight with my friend about my true emotions. The ones I hide behind fake smiles and pointless lies. She ended it with a statement that was, to me, like a punch in the stomach.
"That's the problem Julia! No one ever knows what you're really feeling, what you're really thinking! And know it's really starting to kill me!" she said, before signing off of AIM. I read the message ten times before my mind responded. Sobs shook my body as tears blurred my vision. The computer beeped and an IM window popped up.
Maddie: Heyy
Me: Hi
Maddie: Whats up?
Me: Carly and I had a fight over something stupid and now I can't stop crying
Maddie: Aww, why?
Me: Because Carly made me realize how I just bottle up all my feelings and then pour them out at one person, always at the wrong time and I hate what it does to not only me but everyone around me
Maddie: Oh, honey
Me: "That's the problem Julia! No one ever knows what you're really feeling, what you're really thinking! And know it's really starting to kill me!" that's the last thing she said
Maddie: =[
Me: She's right though. And I wish she hadn't signed off because she's the first person to realize how bad it is. More than anyone else. Including myself. Especially myself.
Maddie: Jules, it's ok.
Me: I'm suicidal. I've only ever told one person before
Maddie: How did you try?
Me: I've tried stabbing myself and I've tried drowning myself
Maddie: While we're being honest, you know those cuts on my arms from when I fell into a pricker bush?
Me: Yeah..
Maddie: They're not from falling in a pricker bush.
I cut for the first time four months ago, just after I turned 13. Kristen and I had gotten into a huge fight and I just couldn't take the pressure. For the next 2 and a half months I cut almost every night until one day I decided that I would stop, simply to prove to myself that I could. And I did. I haven't cut for roughly two months and I've never been more proud of myself. I'm happier than I've ever been.
After seven years of suicidal thoughts, five years of attempted suicides, and two months of cutting I have finally ended my long obsession with dieing and I'm finally semi-happy. But I still hate myself. I should be happy. I have a home. Food. Clothes. I have so many things that others would kill for, that I should be happy. But I'm not as happy as I should be. So I'm not a hero, I'm not a saint, I'm nothing you want to be. I'm just a 13 year old girl who cries too much, lies too much, falls in love too easily, has an obsession with death, and wants to die.
I guess I'm just selfish, but at least I'm something.
♠ ♠ ♠
by Julia and Zane