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Trigger warning: mention of suicidal thoughts and self-harm

For storytelling purposes, Onyx's healing process is sped up throughout the span of a few months.

However, in reality, getting through the stages of recovery (which, for the record, I am still every day working through) has taken years of hard work and many, many days when I thought I would never get better.

What I'm trying to say is, healing takes time. You're going to feel lost. It's not like in the books or movies or songs. It's long, and rambling and difficult. And more often than not, it's terrifying. To be honest, I've barely even gotten started. I still don't know what I'm doing some days. Sometimes, anger, whether at myself or other people, is the only emotion I know how to feel.

To be honest, anger has been a huge part for my life for a long time. Most people who know me now would probably be surprised by that, but it's true. Even now, it's true. I'm just better at keeping it under the surface.

So here's my story.

When I was six, I had my first suicidal thoughts.

I never attempted. But even now, it feels like there's a Pandora's box  in my chest, a landmine about to go off any second. When it explodes, I text a crisis line. I talk to a counsellor whose name I don't even know, tears streaming down my cheeks. I am told to put my medication and anything else I could use to hurt myself somewhere it's hard to reach. I hang between the empty spaces of the counsellor's response. Eventually, I feel okay again.

Anyway, by the time I was seven... it felt like there was electricity constantly crawling beneath my skin.

I wanted to destroy everything. Including myself.

I hated my parents. I hated my teachers. I hated everyone who tried to help me, because they had failed me. Because I wanted to die. Because I was bullied. Because no one had come to save me. Even though they promised to. Even though they were supposed to. Because I was living in a system that wasn't designed to live with me.

Because I was surrounded by a wall of fire on all sides.

To be honest, on the bad days, I still feel that way.

I slammed my head against the wall, trying to shake my brain out of my skull, trying to shatter everything around me. I dug my fingers into my cheeks, watching as the blood slowly turned into another scab, another attempt at healing I could rip away in a second. And I punched myself, again and again. Until everything kind of went numb. Except it never went numb. It was never enough.

I wouldn't let anyone touch me. I still have issues with being touched by people.

I lashed out, because I didn't know what else to do.

And on the bad days, I can still feel that kind of anger, crackling through my skin. The kind of anger that makes you want to claw your skin off your body because you hate the world. And you hate yourself. And you hate it all.

So, think of this story like a roadmap. Because this is the best way I know to describe how it felt. And how it still feels. And where I am.

This is the story Wings of Fire never told, but I needed to tell anyway.


If you need to talk to anyone, I've linked Wattpad's list of crisis lines below this chapter. You are not alone, and, as much as most days it's really hard to believe... your problems are valid, no matter how small or massive they are. And help and hope are real.

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