Summary: Even parents who think they know everything about their children can’t know what goes on behind closed doors.

Rating: M

Warnings: Self-Injury

By Alexannah

I fled upstairs, unable to get into my room fast enough before the tears escaped. It had happened again. This was the third time this week.

I hated it; hated myself for sinking so low; hated myself for getting so upset at the smallest thing.

I could have stayed in the room, explained to my mum why what she said affected me so much. But I didn’t. She can’t understand.

I threw myself head-first onto my bed straight after shoving the door shut. My uncle didn’t cut it straight when he re-did our doors, so you really have to bang it. My face was wet, but I scrubbed it dry with one hand, the other wrapped around myself to give myself some feeling of security. I do that so much I don’t even think about it any more.

Deep breathing. In. Out.

I couldn’t postpone it any longer.

I can’t even remember why I did it the first time. I haven’t been doing it long, but the regularity has been increasing. At first I used a pen, normally a cheap biro. I would swipe hard at my arm with the point. It hurt, but not much. It did leave marks though.

Then, once when I didn’t have a pen, I just dug my fingernails in. It hurt a little at first but the pain dimmed fairly quickly. I found I had to keep increasing the pressure until I’d had enough.

Once I tried my razor. Never again. I was careful to keep it away from major veins but the pain wasn’t what I wanted. I was afraid to go too deep but what I was doing was more like large paper-cuts. It didn’t even hurt at first, and when it did hurt, boy it stung, especially in the shower. I needed instant pressure. I went back to the fingernail job, and have stayed there ever since.

I clenched my arm hard, gritting my teeth. Thoughts still whirled around my head: thoughts of my mum and the TV show we’d been watching, and her comment that seemed so insensitive. I wish I could come clean with her but I can’t. I just can’t. Every time I try and find the words I have a block preventing me from speaking them.

We’re close, my mum and I. Most of the time. But there are times when I can’t speak to her – when I can’t speak to anyone at all – and I need a release. And this is the only way I can get it. If I didn’t, I would crack. I haven’t cracked. Not yet. I’m holding on, because I’ve got hope. Hope for a better life. Hope that someday – preferably soon – I can escape my mental prison and be myself.

But for now, I hide, and hurt behind closed doors.

FIN