All In Your Mind

I eased the volume button up on my stereo, wanting to block out the noise but knowing that if it got much louder one of the nurses would come in to complain. I knew for a fact that if one of them caught me with my headphones on with sad songs playing again, they'd take my stereo away. Something about self-destructive behavior. I didn't understand it though, even the songs that made me sad were important to me. I tugged on a stray lock of hair, hating it for getting in my way. I hated my hair, I couldn't even manage to get it to go right. I dragged it out the ponytail it was in, knowing that I would never get it even. I could feel my skin crawling, I hated this; I hated myself. Such a simple thing that was impossible for me to do. So typical of me, everything I touched turned to shit. I was like the fucked up version of King Midas.

I tugged the headphones off and flung them on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and blocking everything out. I could still hear the faint noises of patients and nurses through in the social area, but apart from that I could have been floating away in a world of my own, an orbit of my own, a space of my own. That's all I wanted, but nobody could give me it. I was happier by myself, just me and my thoughts and my music. Why was it that I had to be social? Who decided these rules, that I was the unhealthy one? In my mind those who went out in the skimpy outfits in big groups laughing and riotous were the crazy ones. I wasn't crazy. Even the doctor told me that. But people in my life had always told me different.

The air was damp and cold and I was shivering so violently I felt like I was about to fall apart. The blade in my hand trembled, flashing in the dull light. I tried to ignore the rust on it. There was a taste like rust in my mouth too as I bit down hard on my tongue. When I pressed the sharp edge to the skin on my arm the trembling stopped momentarily. The tears slipped down my cheeks and landed on my arm, mingling with blood as I continued dragging the blade across my skin, faster and faster until my arm was a mess. The self-hatred and disgust I felt inside marked on my skin. There was so much blood my hands were slick with it and the blade dropped from my skin.

"What are you doing?"

I turned slowly, my mind feeling too dull to register shock at my mum standing in the doorway, her mouth wide in a silent scream. She was crouched in front of me in two strides; I stretched my bloodied arms out to her, unable to recognize the emotion on her face. Maybe now she wouldn't hate me. Instead of her holding me, she grabbed my shoulders and shook me roughly.

"Why do you have to be such a freak? What's wrong with you? Why did you have to be born? I wish you'd died, you hear me! We hate you, you're a freak and I hate you!"

She flung me back to the ground, leaving my room. My mum was sobbing as hard as me, but slammed the door and ran to my father, who would no doubt agree with her. I couldn't fathom it. Why couldn't the understand why I did it? They thought it was pathetic, that I was doing it for attention. I wasn't the one who was hard to understand, they were.

With fumbling, hands I picked the blade back up. Everything seemed tinted red. I pressed the blade down harder than I had ever before and more blood welled up. More blood than I thought I had. They wanted me dead. I wanted to make them happy. All I wanted was that.

The memories didn't fade until I hit my head off the edge of my bed, making my eyes swim with tears.

"It's just because of the pain," I muttered, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hands. My parents hadn't visited me in the hospital, even though they'd called the ambulance when they'd found me. And they hadn't visited me here either. I was the freak of the family, nobody wanted me. Now I was here they could pretend I didn't exist.

I bit down on my lip as hard as I could, and dug my nails into my wrists, next to the scars. My nails were cut back to stop me using them to self-harm, but they still nipped into my skin enough to cause pain. I thought of my old bedroom, wondering if it was still the same or if it'd been turned into a study. I laughed; a hollow, empty sound. I hoped my blood was still staining the floorboards and they got reminded of me every time they looked there.