Warning: This chapter consists of self-harm related content, and may be triggering. If you can't handle these types of topics, feel free to skip this reading.
Delia
A dream? I thought to myself as my eyes slowly blinked at my small television ahead of me, sitting atop a wooden stand. A dream that felt... somehow so impossibly real?
I should've been happy that it was just my mind fooling with me when I was just trying to sleep a long, peaceful snooze that was much needed for a Monday morning, but instead I cried. I bawled, realizing that my anxiety was getting so severe, it was affecting my sleep and dreams, when truly my only escape had been to shut my eyes. Now, that couldn't even serve me a getaway. I sat there definitely too long, just
over thinking, frustration and sadness tugging inside me, hopeless questions echoing throughout my head.
When was I ever going to see life in a positive meaning again?
When, would my anxiety completely go away?
Were these "when's" useless and would I never find happiness and be anxiety-free again?
I felt like all my emotions were built up inside me, and there was no way they could come out. My heart throbbing at a fast pace, I went to my top drawer for my dresser, where all my undergarments and female needs were placed neatly in a row. After a moment of searching, I snatched a razor which was a beautiful turquoise color, resembling the shade of a juicy, fresh lime.
I couldn't believe I'd do this to myself- even though I knew how my parents felt about self - harm & suicide. They felt disgusted toward it, and ever since around the age of 11, they made me promise not to ever hate my body or myself enough to harm it, or worse, put its life to an end. But right now, I did
feel like I deserved to harm myself- I did feel like if I put my life to an end, not a single soul would be phased or give a shit. Without thinking anymore depressing thoughts, I simply and bravely slid the blade harshly against my smooth skin, making a cut for each thing I hated about myself, or anything I've done wrong. It hurt at first, but eventually my skin got accustomed to the treatment it was being put through.
One, for being abnormal and constantly having anxiety.
Two, for being fat.
Three, for being ugly.
Four, Five, Six for being too unworthy for Shawn.
Seven, for no friends.
Eight- for all my teachers to hate me.
In the end, I managed to have a grand total of ten, bleeding cuts lined a top one another on my forearm. By now my arm was full on stinging, causing me to wince slightly here and there. After a minute or so, my arm felt as if it went completely numb- to the awful point where I couldn't feel it or even move it. Of course, this caused me to panic which made me overall even more frustrated then I was before. So what did I stupidly decided to do?
Make five more fresh cuts along my arm.
I suddenly became dizzy and nauseous, closing my eyes tightly, my back still pressing against the cool wall. After a few minutes where I felt like I was seriously going to pass out, my door opened. Without a knock, or even a polite, less disturbing "Can I come in?" Nope, not even that. To my horror, in the doorway, stood my mother.
"Chelsea, Shawn is h-" my mom had been about to say, but was interrupted by me, looking probably lifeless against the wall, my arm probably covered in blood.
