“Hello everyone,” an annoyingly overjoyed woman says to us teenagers at the mental hospital. We’re in our first therapy group of the day, but mainly everyone is just trying to stay awake. We all give her a “hi” which sounds like it looks more effort than it should have, considering we were all half asleep.
On my left sat Bella, on my right sat Grace, and next to Grace were Hailey and Crystal. Luke sat on the other side of the room with a few of his guy friends. Before the group started, Daniel kept making jokes about how tired we all are, claiming he knows we’re actually just being lazy.
“Today I’m going to talk to you all about getting over bad memories,” she says as she examines all of us. I feel as if we’re being monitored here.
The perky, overjoyed lady began again, “All of you have experienced bad moments in your life; that’s what got you here. And now I bet all of you get flashbacks of those bad memories in your minds, correct?” We all shake our heads up and down in unison.
“Getting those flashbacks is normal, but how you deal with them is different. Sometimes, these flashbacks will drive people crazy, others can just shrug the flashbacks off.
“When you get these flashbacks, you just need to remind yourself that the past is the past, and that you’re in the present. This also goes back to the thought-stopping group we had yesterday. Use some of those coping mechanisms to stop the flashbacks.” The group continued on, the lady then beginning to talk about how to calm yourself down when you’re in an angry mood. However, I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying because I kept thinking about the flashbacks. I realized that I get flashbacks all the time, almost constantly. I had flashbacks at Christie’s office yesterday of my friends and family when I told them I cut myself. My flashbacks are horrible. They consume my mind. I guess I’m the group the lady was talking about where the flashbacks make them go crazy.
Thinking about flashbacks in general sparked a flashback in my mind of the first time I cut myself.
It was late at night; my whole family was asleep. I looked in the mirror and watched the tears roll down my face. I grabbed my razor from inside the shower and sat down on the cold bathroom floor. Suddenly, I attacked my wrist. Adrenaline rushed through me. I felt so eager to make the first cut; wanting to hurt myself inside and out. It sounds horrible, I know, but my sick, twisted mind thinks things I cannot control.
Each time the blade grazed my skin; I whispered something to myself, “worthless, stupid, ugly, fat, depressed, annoying, stubborn.” In one sudden movement, I pelted the razor down felt traumatized by watching the blood drip down from the gazing while. I stopped crying, and suddenly felt better. It was as if all of the problems inside me were finally going out of my body. It felt like I was releasing all the dark secrets I’ve hidden inside myself. I can’t deny it; it felt astonishing.
I watched the blood slowly drip down my wrist, the trail of blood touching my palm. I looked at my wrist and noticed what I’ve done. I’m a cutter. I can never take that back. The tears welcomed themselves back into my eyes. I will always be a cutter because of this; I can never take that moment back.
I remember my eyes wandering to the blade placed very firmly in my right hand, then at the cuts on my left wrist. It reminded me how weak I am; how easy I am to break. Am I just setting myself up for failure? Clearly, the relief I got from self-harm had worn off and the aftershock effects edge on inside me.
I stood up from the cold floor and looked at myself in the mirror. I barely recognized myself. My bloodshot eyes from crying glared at me, and then roamed down the blood still escaping from my wrist. I quickly started rummaging through the bathroom cabinets to find Band-Aids, but with my luck, found none. I wiped my eyes before softly opening the door. Silently and carefully, I get it open and tip toe my way towards the hall closet.
I slowly rummaged my shaking hands through the hall closet and smile as I find a box of Band-Aids. I brought them back to my bedroom and sprung my body upon the bed. I placed one Band-Aid upon my wounded wrist and watched the blood, which seeped through quickly. I place a second Band-Aid, which blood quickly went through also, then a third. The third Band-Aid finally began to stop the bleeding and I lied back on my bed. I looked at the ceiling as I let my body sink into the comfortable mattress.
I feel so let down about myself. Deep in the back part of my mind, I knew cutting wasn’t the right solution. I didn’t listen to that one part of my mind; I only listened to the rest. My horrid mind led me on to this; made me think cutting would be an admirable way to help relieve my stress. I chuckled to myself as I realized how wrong I was.
I tried to fall asleep until my wrist starts horribly stinging. I grasp my wrist in pain, gripping the aching slits. I guess I just needed to get used to this sort of pain. The pain welled down after several minutes, and I collapsed on my bed into sleep.
“Rachel?” I shook my head and looked up. The room looked dizzy and I noticed the lady staring at me, saying my name.
“Y-yes?” I ask her. She smiles at me.
“I asked you if you’d use some of the coping mechanisms I just told you,” she says, knowing I obviously wasn’t paying attention.
“Oh yeah, I would,” I say hoping she won’t ask me any more questions; I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.
“Good,” she says. She continues to talk about coping skills that I already know from Christie.
“Nice save,” Bella whispers to me. I laugh.
“Thanks.”
I began to think of my flashback again. I remember the first time I cut myself like it was yesterday. I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t do it that day. Would everything be different? Would I still be depressed? Would I still be here? Probably not.
I guess that’s sort of why I feel so guilty for doing it that day. Well that and the fact of what I did to my parents, Spencer, and Jacob. My little sister, Katie, still doesn’t know. She’s only nine years old; she’s too young to understand what’s really going on. My parents told her I was simply sad and that’s why I’m in a mental hospital. She’s quite naïve, so she believed it.
I felt more guilt washed over me than normal and I started breathing really fast. My head began to feel dizzy and I felt like I was going to throw up. No, not an anxiety attack, not now, I thought.
Everyone gets up to walk to lunch since the group ended, and I’m the last one to get up. Breathe, just breathe, I keep telling myself. Anxiety attacks are one of the worst side effects to anxiety. They come whenever I’m stressed out or worried, and next thing I know I’m breathing really fast and I can’t control myself.
I walked by myself to lunch, still having an anxiety attack. Tears began to flow out of my eyes, which I’m guessing now turned to blue since I’m sad. My vision blurred and it became harder to look around at my surroundings.
I wish I never cut myself. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But then again it made me who I am, right? I was so confused that I couldn’t bear to stand any longer. My mind seemed to become a mess, my thoughts jumping into each other.
I felt so guilty for cutting myself. The pain I brought to others was unbearable. I felt like such a horrible person for being so conceited and not thinking how it would affect people. I tried to get rid of my own pain but just brought it to others instead.
Cutting didn’t help neither anyone nor myself.
I almost believed I wasn’t here and that I was at home in my bed, where I desperately hoped I was. I was out of my own little fantasy when someone knocked on my shoulder. I nearly fell over from the small touch, then turned around to see whom it was. It was Luke.
“I heard you sniffling,” he said, noticing how alarmed I was. I shivered. It was the middle and it seemed as if it was well below freezing point.
“You okay?” He continues. I shrug.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. We followed the crowd into the cafeteria and I was so relieved when the warm air inside stopped my shivering.
“Do you want to talk about it? I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he suggests. I sniffle. It was nice he was trying to help. I shouldn’t push him away like I do with everyone else. Talk to him, let him help you, I thought.
“I just keep on thinking about the first time I cut myself,” I say to him. “I feel so guilty for hurting my family. They don’t deserve to be sad like how I am.” Holding my arms to my chest, I began to cry more. My anxiety attack worsened and I began to struggle to breathe again. He came closer to me and hugged me. I didn’t notice how strong he was until his arms were tightly wrapped around me. I sobbed quietly onto his shoulder while he whispered in my ear, “it’s okay”.
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(A/N) Not the best chapter, oh well. I hope you enjoy it! Make sure to comment/vote if you like it! Thank you so much for all your feedback and for reading (: