The World Is Ugly

About 50% of those who engage in self-mutilation begin around age fourteen and carry on into their twenties. Most people who self-injure are not trying to commit suicide, instead using self-injury as a coping mechanism. Self-injury does become an addiction as it helps you feel better for a short period of time.

Statistics, oh how I hate them. Yeah, the school counselor thought it was a good idea to read every suicide/self-injury statistic in existence to me to ‘help me’. To be honest she annoys the living hell out of me on a good day, but now she’s being completely idiotic. I try to act understanding and kind when in reality I want to scream and hit her over the head with a chair. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but still. She continues to ramble as I have a stare down with the clock, begging for two-thirty to come quicker.

“Rylynn, are you listening to me?” Mrs. Ross asks in her normal, annoying voice.

“Honestly, no. No I am not listening to you.” I say in a calm tone. The bell rings loudly and I get up. “And now I’m gonna go home; and you can’t stop me.” I say as I walk casually out the door.

Students crowded the halls, shoving each other without caring if someone fell or dropped something. I eventually manage to make it to my locker after numerous people spit ‘emo’ and ‘cutter’ at me. Those insults meant nothing to me now. I heard them so often that I’ve stopped caring. I open my locker to see something fall out. A neatly folded scrap of paper greeted me. I unfold it carefully to see in neat, girly handwriting, ‘why don’t you just kill yourself? lol, like really’. I roll my eyes and crumple up the note. What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do?

I grab my bag and stuff a pamphlet Mrs. Ross gave me into a random side pocket. I pull out my iPod and a pair of headphones, just to have someone snatch them out of my hands. I spin around quickly only to be met with the face of the person I hate the most. Her name is Skylar. We used to be friends, but after all of the gay jokes, homophobic remarks, self-harm jokes, and rude remarks about my family; I finally got sick of her. Then she said that I told her to kill herself; which is completely untrue.

“Hey faggot.” She says casually, as she throws my iPod across the now emptying hallway.

“So mature Skylar.” I say as I walk to get my belongings.

She follows right behind me, kicking the back of my legs as she walks. “So did your dad finally forget your name?” She asks as I pick up my iPod.

“For your information, no he did not. And can you please leave me alone?” I ask. I push past her and run down the stairs before she could ask me anymore questions.

Of course it rained the whole time I walked home. Why does the world hate me? As soon as I step into my house, I could hear my parents screaming at each other in the other room. I quickly made a beeline to my room and slam the door shut. I throw my bag to the ground and pull a small razor out of my pocket. My only true friend. I roll up my sleeve to see all of the previous marks on my arms. I wasn't proud of them yet I wasn't ashamed of them either. They were just, part of me.

Quick slashes appear on my arm and I watch the blood gently flow down my wrist. It didn't hurt it was just sorta reassurance that if I ever needed a friend, my razor would be there for me. Everything from today disappeared for a moment and I was content. Everything Mrs. Ross said, the note in my locker, Skylar, the fighting, none of it was import. Not now at least.

But then again I will wake up tomorrow and everything will repeat, like it always has. Mrs. Ross will bother me, Skylar will bother me, my parents will fight, and that will lead to more marks on my arm. It’s a never ending cycle and it will only end when I do.