'When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.' -Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak

14th March 2011

Today marks the end of a journey and the beginning of a new one. A journey full of different people, different places, and a different life... to an extent.

The journey I have found myself on has been named 'recovery'.

Basically I am what society sees as a 'dysfunctional teenage drama queen', yet I see myself as a girl with the scars of her past embedded forever on her skin, each with a story of its own, perhaps not a good story or even a decent story, but maybe one day a story which will end with the words 'happily ever after'. I doubt that will ever happen, but a girl can dream right?

My recovery started today where I attended my first counsellor session with my new counsellor Callum. I had no idea what to expect, it was something I had never done before in my life, nor had I ever expected to do. I had seen these kind of things in all those American films, and well it was different. There was no sofa for me to lie on and burden Callum with all my life problems. Instead it was a room filled with toys for children so they can express their emotions; it was obvious I was in a child counsellor's office. I have to admit that I felt quite offended. I found myself old enough to make the decision of whether to end my life or not, yet I was still seen too young to sit in a room with a 'proper' counsellor.

I will give Callum credit though. He's quite good at his job, he informed me that he had been working at the hospital for about 7 years, and prior to that had worked in many other mental health settings.

At the end of the session he gave me a task to write about my emotions. He says one of the best ways to understand your feelings is to express them in one way or another, and apparently writing them down in journal form is the best way because it allows you to go back and look at them. I feel stupid for writing a journal; they just remind me of 10 year old girls who are writing about their latest crush and how they fell out with their bff's over a packet of crisps or something equally stupid. But when my mum found out about the task it ended up becoming the furthest thing from involuntary.

So here goes my first attempt.

Urban Dictionary defines self-harm as: 'The act of harming the self. This can include cutting, burning, drinking alcohol, taking drugs or solvent abuse, self bruising and hair pulling, amongst other things. It is a coping method not a fail suicide attempt, or a sign of being 'emo'.'

For me a week ago, self harm became a failed suicide attempt. Infact I came shockingly close to death. The amount of blood I lost was enough to kill me. I felt scared to carry on this life, even now I feel the same. I was willing to welcome death with open arms, not bothering about the consequences or the effects of my decision. My thoughts haven't changed though, I still very much believe them things, except now I'm scared of suicide. I have failed it once, I have been granted another chance of survival, and I'm terrified I will fail again.

I was found at 12:15 pm on Monday 7th March, laid in the middle of the school corridor, a few feet away from my locker. Cuts and blood covering my arm, from the wrist to the shoulder. From what I have been told it showed my panic and desperation to end my life, that I have aimlessly cut my arm not feeling the pain or even realising what I was about to do. But even though I barely remember anything from that moment I knew exactly why I was cutting, and I was so close, yet so far away from reaching that dream.

It had been believed I had laid there in a pool of my own blood for just over 15 minutes until I was found at the beginning of lunch. I imagine everyone walking out of class, and coming face to face with Crazy Cait lying almost dead on the floor. I imagine people screamed, I imagine the girls cried, I imagine people later on talking about me as if they knew me. In reality I knew they didn't give a shit about me, and the only people who actually acknowledged my existence in life were the reason I cried myself to sleep each and every night.