One Door Closed Another Left Open

It is 10pm when I wake up next. I don't know what caused me to wake up. I’m not in pain. I’m not having an attack. I haven’t had a nightmare. I am just awake. My mind starts reeling without my permission. I start thinking about my weight. No matter how much I binge, purge, work out, count, and change, I never look any different. I am immune to the upside of an eating disorder. I am too fat to do it right. I remember all the people who asked me if I was pregnant. I remember crying because people told me I would never have a boyfriend. I was too masculine looking. I was too male to get a guy. I was an “it”. I should just try to be lesbian; that was the only way I would ever find someone to care about me. I remember being in preschool and hiding from the bullies midway down a slide. I remember starting to scratch my arms numb in middle school whenever I was angry or upset. I remember how one emotion would blur into another. I remember trying to kill myself.

I remember failing.

I remember that week and a half spent with people telling me everything was fine in reality. I just had to find reality. I remember being told what was real and what was not. I remember every car crash and every doctor telling me my pain was just inside my mind. I remember being called insane, being deemed mental and a freak. I remember losing every home I grew comfortable in. I remember being homeless and waking up sick every day for a year. I remember watching my Grandmother die and being disowned by everyone but my mother. I remember my mother threatening to send me to my biological father if I didn't show more appreciation. I remember wanting to die so I could be with my lost family members.

I remember failing.

I remember breaking down in history class, over my Granny's death. I remember being yelled at by my teacher for leaving without permission. I remember crying my heart out in pain the first time I realized how physically damaged I was from the last car crash. I remember begging for medical help but not being able to communicate with anyone. I remember the nurse refusing to help and harassing me because she thought I was addicted to drugs. I remember lying in the hospital bed when they told me nothing was wrong. I remember going to the therapists and being treated like a stubborn child. I remember the look on my friends’ faces when they hurt me on accident. I remember trying to take control of my body and doing anything and everything I could to get back to normal.

I remember failing.

I don’t want to fail anymore.

I won't fail anymore.

I get up out of my bed and go into the bathroom. I turn the shower on as hot as I can handle. I strip down. I put on my two rings and BVB necklace. I grab my blade and the bottle of Benadryl. I take six. Two usually makes me drowsy and I've taken three before, so six should be plenty. I step into the shower and sit on the floor beneath the spray. I slice. All the way up my left arm, all over my right thigh. I cut so many words into my left thigh that, underneath the blood, I am pretty sure the entire alphabet lay. I don’t cry. I will not cry. This isn’t the ending to my existence. It is just the ending to my mortal life. When I awake into death, I will be with my loved ones. I will be with God.

I can’t help the laugh that escaped in between sobs. Most people never expect for me to be a Christian. Christians are supposed to be either loving, happy, accepting Bible-thumpers or egotistical, hateful, vengeful God-fearing bigots. I am neither. I believe God is love and that he makes everyone for a reason, so who am I to judge. I pride myself on never hating any other person. I dislike several people, but never hate them. I only hate myself. I just want to be free of this world full of hate. The most kindness I can find is either in lyrics or when I distract myself to pretend to be happy for my friends. I have moment where I am genuinely happy with my closest friends, but whenever the group went past three other people it was just an act.

Every time a cut clots, I add another, keeping the stream constant. I don’t want to have to look at people's faces if I survive this. I feel the medicine take over my body. I know soon I will be asleep. I have to make sure I never wake up. I take my razor and cut my neck. I cut as deep as I can. The blade drops from my hand as I quickly grow dizzy. I lay down in the tub, hot water still pouring down on my bloody body, and curl up into the fetal position.

I just don’t want to fail anymore. I just don’t want to feel.