11-15-10
I remember sitting in my room; mascara and eyeliner streaming down my cheeks. My eyes were swollen like a bee had stung them and I could hardly catch my breath. My mother questioned everything about me. “I don’t trust you.” She claimed that answer swung in the midst of the air stinging me the most. I walked from shelf to shelf aimlessly cleaning, my make-up had been organized and sorted, and my earrings had been hung along with my clothes that were now hanging neatly in my closet. I began to lean to the shelves on my closet wall and rely on them to hold me up right for I couldn’t any longer. I felt my knees go weak and my body begin to shake as if I was having a seizure. I could feel myself give into the past, into my depression once again. I was falling into that dark place and wouldn’t let myself stop. I sat on the floor of my closet falling back into a pile of pillows. “Would you have done anything different?” “No.” I gulped in reply. “You wouldn’t? why not?” I hated that tone of disappointment in her voice. “I… I don’t know what I would do…” I trailed off. I was still huddled in my closet on the floor sobbing, my closet doors closed; it was dark and cold inside my closet. I looked up at the ceiling wishing there was a window. I tuned mom out for a minute trying to pull myself together with no success. “Molly. Who do you hate most right now?” I couldn’t answer her aloud all the answers were drowning my mind and I began to feel guilty, too guilty. Myself I thought. I heard feet on the ground and I squeezed my knees hoping she wouldn’t open the closet doors and reveal how pathetic I was sitting there on the ground like a child tears flowing rapidly. Instead I heard the door open across the room, and she was scurrying down the stairs. I stayed curled up where I felt safe, in the corner of the closet. I sat and contemplated word she said, the guilt built. I slid the glass closet doors open and rose to my feet. I was repeating every reason I hated myself in my head, it was practically screaming at me. I found a black sharpie and all over my mirrors in my room I wrote “I HATE myself.” I made a list fit to why I hate myself and I started at it. My reflection taunted me, it wasn’t pretty. My curls were now lose and a frizzy mess and my eyes were blood shot a crimson red, my face and hands were black from wiping my tears and my makeup leaving behind stains. I turned and walked over to my desk pulling out a razor. The blades were sharp and clean, my skin was pale white and I could see my veins. Ice blue. I took the blades and pulled it across my left wrist. The four lines began to bleed; the ice blue blood in my veins was now red as can be. My pulse raced and my heart pounded. There is something about controlling my own pain after so much of it, it’s calming. The crisp cheery red blood looked like scarlet against my skin. I glided back over to the closet mirror and came face to face with myself; I looked into my eyes and saw nothing. I was empty. I fell onto my knees as the tears swelled up in my eyes again I pursed my lips together trying to hold them back with no success. One, two, three fell, holding them back was pointless I thought as they began to pour like rain. I was sitting on my floor crying and I crawled back into my safe hiding place. Where I felt alone, the place no one could attack my feelings I leaned against the threshold of the door and watched the blood glide down my wrist onto my hand. I sat there that night blade in one hand tissue in the other; I was still shaking and crying. I sat there for hours watching the blood flow and feeling my face grow hot. Trying to pull myself together enough to breath for the slightest moment, with no success. Today I have the four scars of that very night to show for my “Un” diagnosed depression.
That’s how I remember it.
