My eyes stared out of focus at the crimson walls- wait. Crimson? My friend, Jenny, had cut… did it for attention and all. With a family as big as mine (I was the eldest of nine other siblings); I could get more attention drawn on me.
If the attention wasn't on the next eldest, Sarah, for playing her saxophone solos, it was on Trevor, third in line. He sung in the school choir. Peter was 'boy-wonder' playing his drums in eighth grade and his twin, Rachel, did the same. Heather was babysitting at the early age of eleven and was almost never home. Jack was only nine and was spelling-bee champ already. Kimberly's five and reads at the level of a ten year old. And if the attentions not on them, it's on baby Ryan who's learning how to walk. The attention was never on me.
Maybe I could get a therapist to get me through this, but it would take a while. And why in God's name would I want a therapist?
I went down three flights of stairs (yes, we own a three-story house, plus basement and a three car garage) to the basement… to my dad's workshop, to be more exact… and basically upturned his room looking for a razorblade. Finally, in the last drawer I looked in, I found a new pack of razors. I took them upstairs to my room (I was the only one with my own room, thank God). Thing is, dad never uses "his" room, so it'd be a few weeks (minimum) until he noticed something was amiss.
My hands automatically opened the packaging and threw it in the garbage. I gasped in pain a razor fell out of my grasp and landed in my bare foot about a quarter of an inch. Blood started pooling out of the wound when I pulled the razor out. I quickly dabbed at it with some tissues so it wouldn't get on my white carpet.
"Better do this somewhere else," my voice said but it sounded laced with happiness and contentment. Me, happy with cutting?
I moved to the bathroom and locked the door. I put a band-aid on my foot and looked into the mirror. I looked into my vibrant blue eyes and thought:
I'm supposed to be poised, pulled together… but I'm not. I'm pathetic! Just because I'm not getting nearly as much attention as I need, I'm cutting! I'm supposed to be poised, pulled together, the pick of the litter, honor student and daughter of the year material. But I'm not. I'm pathetic. My family's rich, everyone says… I'm supposed to be all these things… it's expected of me.
I've lost interest in band, I've actually dropped it. I don't sing anymore and my grades are slipping. There's no… no want to go on anymore. Is there something wrong with me?
I took the razor blade down my left arm and watched as a thin line of crimson followed the razor down past my elbow and it ended… just above my wrist. I'd have to get by wearing long sleeved shirts for a long time.
Holding it, holding it, holding it… we can't hold it anymore!
I let a sigh escape my lips but it sounded more like a moan of pain.
I hope no one heard that.
Then I let the tears fall down my face. Tears and blood started pouring down my body and I entered the tub and filled it with water to wash away the blood (and, so it wouldn't stain the tub).
Pain is my existence. I'm living for pain.
And at that moment, I found my release; I wasn't cutting for attention anymore (even though I'd only started), I was cutting to feel something other than this… this depression I was feeling. I stopped the razor halfway through my forth cut. Slowly, the depression started to diminish. School mattered again and I thought that, in my Junior year, my grades really started to count. I needed to pick them up. Band had meaning; it wasn't just some ensemble making noise, we made music. Singing opened up more doors for my brother, why couldn't it for me? He was fourteen and had a college scholarship for UNLV. What made him the only singer in the family?
And then, and then, it started coming back. I glanced at the clock. No wonder! I had been day dreaming for over two hours!
Why hasn't anyone been pounding on the door? Oh, yes, it's Saturday. Mom took my two youngest siblings shopping and everyone else was out.
My arms were stained crimson and there was a crimson stain around the tub when I drained the water. I got out the bleach and started scrubbing the tub. When I was done, I filled the tub up again and started cutting my legs. Then an idea hit me. Since I was all for the pain, why not make the cutting hurt worse? Salt hurt in a wound, but I had no salt. Hairspray!
I was crying tears again; tears of pain mixed with tears of joy. But hairspray had one downside: it made the wound stop bleeding a lot quicker. I made a mental note that, next time, when I was cutting, I would bring salt.
I rinsed the tub out and washed out my self-inflicted wounds with soap and water; that made it hurt some more. I grabbed some old towels and dried my body off as best as I could. Then I looked out the bathroom door and, once the coast was clear (at some point Trevor had come home), I sprinted down the hall to my room. I sighed in relief when I made it there safely. I changed out of my damp shorts and soggy t-shirt into a pair of pajamas pants and a sweatshirt.