"Help is Here"

Trigger Warning: This story includes explicit themes of depression, self-harm, and suicide. If you feel like this story will be triggering for you, please, do not read it. I don't want to put you at risk for anything.

You stand in front of your full-length mirror in your room. Examining your naked self, you grumble. Ugh. I'm too short for my age. My arms are too long. My hair looks stupid. Still muttering, you abruptly turn away from the mirror.

Nothing is right.

You step into the shower and turn on the water, two notches from its highest setting. You feel the sudden scalding water rush down your body. It is nearly unbearable, but you stand still under the stream, enduring. You think you're strong enough, but after a few moments, the skin of your back burns, and you begin tensing up. You lower the temperature of the water, glaring at the handle.

You are such a weakling.

As you continue your shower, applying shampoo and soap, your eyes flash to the new razor your sister bought. She will use it to shave her armpits and legs. You, on the other hand, have different plans in mind.

You get out of your car as you shut off the ignition, slamming the door shut. A few people look your way, but you avoid their glances. This happens every morning, and you choose to ignore the looks you get as you drive up to school. You march up to the building where your locker is located. As you kneel down to put in your code, a voice calls out.

"White is so not your color. You should really just stick to black. It makes you look less fat, you know?"

You glare up at the girl standing over you, her manicured hands on her hips. You pull the side of your black jacket in, unconsciously trying to obscure her view of your new button-down shirt. "Thanks for the advice," you mumble as you stand up, pushing past her. "Now leave me alone."

"It's real amazing that you found any friends looking like that," the girl persists, her voice and eyes full of judgment. "Well, I guess it explains why I don't see them around you anymore. They must have been ashamed."

You continue walking, faster now, heading for your first class. You clench your right hand, your nails leaving familiar crescent indents in your palm. Your entire body feels tight, and you have to will yourself not to glare back at her.

She's right. I'm stupid, ugly, and worthless.

You turn the corner to find one of the girl's best friends talking to one of your "friends". The one that ditched you for a date with one of the popular girls, and never really came back. At the sight of you, they both turn and fall into silence.

You pause, your eyes flashing between the two of them. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

A tap on your shoulder causes you to turn around.

"Oh, I think you know why." The first girl stands behind you, holding the store tag of your shirt.

Crap, I must have forgotten to take that off this morning!

A cruel grin creeps up onto the girl's face. "Somebody got a little too excited about this new ugly shirt. What did you do, steal it?" A second later, you feel a strong tug on your shirt as she rips the tag off. Grinning widely, she holds up the tag like a trophy for everyone to see. "Looky here, everyone!" she shouts into the crowded hallway. Turning to you, she looks you in the eyes, taunting. "Who're you trying to impress with this new shirt, hmm? Who would even want to date you? Nobody likes you."

Your breath catches in your throat. Emotion burning through you, you rush in the opposite direction,

Pain has found its next target.

You are back in the bathroom now, staring down at your pale arm. In your hand, you hold control, something that will free you, even if just by a little bit. Meticulously, you dip the razor blade's sharp corner into your skin, a small stream of rage flowing out as you make the incision. A smile creeps up onto your face as you tilt your arm, watching some of the hatred you feel for yourself leave your body. The feeling is exhilarating. You move your hand slightly down your arm and make an identical cut. Your smile widens as the pain release strangely thrills you. You know that if you cut too deeply, it could be dangerous, but a couple minutes later, you can't seem to stop. Multiple small shallow cuts decorate your arm, the addiction obvious. You lost control of it when you made that first cut a few months ago. Now, it controls you.

Your sister walks into the white room, her mouth dropping as she sees the red slick coloring the sink basin. You gasp audibly, fumbling with nearby towels to obscure your bleeding arm.

"Eww, eww, eww! What are you doing?!" she gasps, backing away, her hands shaking as she covers her mouth. "I'm telling Mom and Dad!"

Your heart flies to your throat, beating rapidly, the palpitations vibrating in your head. "No! Don't tell them anything!" you shout, first looking down at the once white towels that still cover your arm, and then at her. "You can't." You bring out your free hand and shake it at her, forgetting that your hand still holds the bloody blade. Small flecks of blood decorate your sister's freckled face.

"Oh my god, ew!" she shrieks, already halfway out the door. "That's so freaky! You need help!"

Help

You shake your head. Help is something you know you'll never get.

You don't deserve it.

There's no real explanation for what you're doing. All you know is that the inner pain eats at you, never ceasing. For the past several years, you've felt yourself drifting away from the outside world, your social circles, your family, and your happiness. Now, whenever you step outside, you are greeted with unwelcoming stares and cold shoulders. You open your computer and log onto Tumblr, a blogging website that has recently become a successful distraction for you. You sigh and scroll through the pages of posts of the people you follow. Some pictures show people self-harming, some with inspirational quotes, but your eye catches the little red flag that pops up at the top of the screen. You have a new inbox message.

You rarely get messages, even on Tumblr, so the new notification is a surprise.

It's probably just the website being stupid again. No one means to message me. Why the hell would they? I'm uninteresting and worthless.

Despite your thoughts, you click the inbox icon anyway. Your eyes widen slightly as you see a real message from a real user.

Hey there. I saw from some of your posts that you were thinking of self-harming and suicide. I just want to let you know that I'm here to listen, whenever you want or need to talk. You are not alone. There are people out there that do care. I am one of them. Hang in there.

– promise-of-a-new-day

Someone actually wrote you a message? Someone cares? You blink several times, thinking that your eyes might be deceiving you. You reopen your eyes. The message is still there on your screen. Your hand trembles excitedly. Maybe it's true. Someone out there cares, and it's even someone you don't know! All this time, the only words you received from the outside world were hurtful, stinging, and degrading. But this one person's words were just the opposite. You sigh, pause, smile slightly, and click answer.

You remember that one time you tried to commit suicide by drowning yourself in the bathtub. You filled the bathtub up to the brim with warm water, and removed your clothes. You knelt in the warm water, gripping the sides of the tub just to have something to hold. You plunged your head into the foot of water, staring into the blurry white basin of the bathtub, holding your breath. This was it. This was the day you ended the pain. Relief was all you ever wanted. Or so you thought. As you slowly let air bubbles trickle out of your mouth, your mind began to wander. You remember when you were little, lying across your parents' laps, looking at their wedding pictures. You always used to wonder about meeting that special someone, your wedding, and the first time you and your partner would look into your child's bright eyes.

It was the thought of your slim but still possible future that made you pull your head out of the water that day. And some part of you, no matter how small, is glad you did.

You return home from school to find your parents and sister waiting for you in the kitchen, concerned looks on their faces.

Your father stands up, his brow arched upward. "We need to talk. Your sister has informed us of something you're doing."

You feel your heart stop. You inwardly gasp, your eyes flashing to your sister. She stands in the corner of the room, furthest away from you, her arms nervously tapping at her side.

She told them, goddammit, now they're going to shun me and hate me for cutting too.

Your mother leans out, grabbing your left wrist, turning it over. "Baby, why are you doing this to yourself?"

Flinching at her touch, you wretch your arm out of her grip. The latest cuts tear open slightly at the motion. "No, don't touch me! You just don't understand!" Concealing your wrist with your other hand, you wheel around and flee the kitchen, running up to your room. As you fling yourself into the dark room, you turn around and slam the door shut. The skin on your wrist stings slightly as you place a wet tissue over the small bleeding cuts.

"It's not fair!" you yell, slamming your fist on the wall. You think about your sister. Tall, beautiful, a great student. The perfect child.

Everything you're not.

It's a new day at school, but to you, your entire life feels like one continuous nightmare. As you walk down the hallway, you receive the same dark, judging stares you've been getting for the past two years. As you try to ignore them all, you stop by your locker to retrieve your books for the day. Your eyes widen as you see the sticky note attached to your locker. Big, black letters stare back at you.

Go Die, Creep. The world would actually be better without your sorry ass in it.

Your slowly crumbling barriers finally collapse. Your eyes flood with stinging tears. You peel away from your locker, running hurriedly to the nearest bathroom. You force your head down, attempting to hide your agonized face in your bangs. You barge into the restroom, hoping in your heart that no one is there. Thankfully, the sinks and stalls are all empty. Tears slip out of your eyes now, blurring your vision. You clumsily push into the closest stall, the one with the broken light fixture. Your hands paw at your face, your nails scratching your skin as you unleash a feral wail that echoes for seconds after you close your mouth. Your body sinks down to the ground, trembling from your sobs.

You want to do it. You want to rid yourself of the pain, of the suffering. You want to do as the world you know has been pressuring you to do for the past year. End it all.

Your mind flashes back to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom at home. On the second shelf, a full bottle of aspirin sits, waiting to combat someone's pain. You want to shove all of the pills down your throat this very instant, but even in your emotional state, you know you cannot. You don't want to die at school. Here, everyone would point and laugh at your lifeless body. You would be the laughing stock of the school, both alive and dead. What a worthless existence.

No longer sobbing uncontrollably, you silently use the toilet and emerge from the stall. You must strip your long, black fingerless gloves in order to properly wash your hands. Wiping a few stray tears from your eyes, you remove your gloves and submerge your hands in the freezing cold water.

Behind you, the door opens and another student walks in.

No. Go away. Please. Go away right now.

The student doesn't address you, simply approaching the sink next to you to wash their hands as well. You direct your attention away from them, attempting to finish up as soon as possible so you can drive home and end all of the pain you continuously suffer.

The student looks over to you as you awkwardly try to hide your still tear-streaked face. "Hey, what's up with your arms?"

No! Don't look at my arms! My cuts!

You frantically grab your gloves and several paper towels in an attempt to cover the multitude of scars on the insides of your forearms.

"Dude, you cut? That's so messed up! How can you do that to yourself?!" the student beside you screams in shock.

"No! You don't understand!" you manage to choke out. Tears flooding down anew, you flee the restroom in a panic.

That's it. You're done with life. You run out of the school building, not caring about anything anymore. You hurry to your car parked out front, get into the driver's seat, and drive home in the loud, pouring rain.

An empty house. A hollow heart. A chaotic mind and soul.

You run upstairs and viciously grab the bottle of pills from the cabinet, just like you imagined. But before you tear open the container and down as many pills as you can, you log onto Tumblr as you slam the bottle down on the desk next to you.

Through tears, you manage to type out one final plea. Please. Anyone. Give me one reason why I shouldn't end my life right now. I am this close. I don't want to live anymore. I don't deserve to.

After clicking Post, you open the bottle of aspirin and stare down into it. This is the cure to your never-ending agony. These small white circles of nothing will lead you to freedom. You believe it is the only way to make the turmoil go away.

Not two minutes after you posted your last call, that little red flag is back on your dashboard.

"W-what?"

Your hand trembles slightly as you slowly make your way up to the top of the page. You click the little gray envelope and wait.

Do not end your life. Please. Listen to me. You are not alone. People do care about you, even if you do not believe it. You were given the gift of life for a reason. More people get out of depression than don't. You can be one of them. I would hate for you to become just another statistic about teen suicide. You are better than this.

Now. What I want you to do is the following: Stand up and go to the bathroom. Look into a mirror. Smile as best as you can at the person looking back at you. Wouldn't it be wonderful to look and feel like that every day?

You're almost there.

Lock your eyes with those of the person you see in the mirror, and say the following sentences as strongly as you can:

Stay Strong.

You are not alone.

Look out for yourself. You are number one.

I sincerely hope that sooner rather than later, you will truly believe in what you just said.

Stay strong, my friend. Life is most definitely something worth living.

- promise-of-a-new-day

You stare at the screen for a long moment. This person, someone you don't know anything about, went through so much trouble just to try to help you? Without even thinking, you find yourself rising up out of your chair, and walking to the bathroom. You lock eyes with those of the person you thought you knew. And then you open your mouth.

Your voice breaks when you emit the first sounds, but you manage to swallow and try again. On your third try, you manage to command the first sentence. The clarity and strength of your voice surprises you, and your eyes quirk up in astonishment.

That came from me?

You try again with the second phrase.

"You are not alone."

I am not alone.

You can see glimmers of hope appear in your eyes as you look up at yourself in the mirror.

"Look out for yourself. You are number one."

I am number one.

"I matter."

The words echo in your ears. A single tear slides down your cheek as your trembling hand comes up to cover your open mouth.

"I matter. I really do."

And you begin to believe it.

A/N - Thank you thank you for reading my story. Please leave thoughts and comments in reviews! If you yourself are going through something similar to this, please, do not hesitate to contact me on this Tumblr blog: promise-of-a-new-day. Things get better. Life is definitely something worth living for.