Make Me Wanna Die

Oh god. How can I even sum up what has happened? Everything was going so well. It all started out with my father asking me if I would go study. I asked for another hour, but he said that he didn’t want to stay up late and didn’t trust that I’d actually study. I got defensive, and told him that I’m not that bad of a kid. He told me he still didn’t trust me and brought up everything I’ve ever done to make him feel that way. Our argument progressed through every topic we could think about arguing for. I eventually begged him to let me study. I realized my study guides were on my laptop, and he had taken my laptop as punishment for arguing with him. I told him this and he made me go through my bag in front of him to prove it was true. We didn’t ever get that far. I told him that he shouldn’t defend himself, because he was totally wrong for kicking me out. I told him that the social worker told me that he shouldn’t be defending himself. Well, he told me that the social worker told him that I’m not suicidal, that I was just trying to manipulate him into leaving the house. My only response to that was, “Give me a knife and we’ll see.” It was more of a jab than a request. I wanted him to know that I was still in pain from the last time he did that three years ago. Instead, he decided he would do it to me again. He pulled the pocket knife that I bought him for Christmas out and gave it to me. He told me to kill myself once again. I asked him then how I should do it. He said he didn’t care, so I just looked at my wrist and cut. I cut once, not too deep. I made sure it wasn’t that bad, and was careful because the blade was serrated. He looked at me and said “Do it again, and I’m calling 911.” At this point, I had already cut once and didn’t care about anything. I cut again, except a whole lot deeper. I ended up cutting through muscle. I was bleeding everywhere, it was all over my bed spread. My father tackled me so I couldn’t cut anymore and grabbed my arm so I wouldn’t run away. I wouldn’t have run away anyways. I didn’t care what happened. He dragged me through the kitchen with a towel wrapped around my wrist and called 911. He told them that I had cut and they sent an ambulance. He called Steph but she was already in bed. The operator wanted to talk to me but I just nudged the phone out of his hand and made it fall and hit the floor. I was picked up in the ambulance and taken to the hospital. I was at the ER for a while, and while I was there my father tried to pick several fights with me. I just ignored and refused to even look at him. He called me immature for doing so, but I was the one trying to keep the fighting to a minimum. My mother actually ended up threatening to call security on him because he wouldn’t stop. Afterward I heard him in the hallway talking about the Miami Dolphins with a nurse. How messed up is that? My grandmother didn’t even come to see me. She was pissed. She was at my father’s house cleaning up the blood. Wow. Just… Wow. I was then talking to my mother and she offered to let me stay at her house. I was in “I don’t care what happens, as long as I’m away from him,” mode, so I decided that was alright. A person from rehab came, however, and told me I had to go back. I didn’t really care, I had enjoyed myself last time. So I was carted there over night and didn’t get any sleep. They made me do a urine sample, and I didn’t have Steph’s number to put on the contact list, so she couldn’t call. That probably worried me the most. Well, it’s breakfast time. Talk to you later.