“If you’re sad, do it. It is more effective that your anti – depressants. It is an easy escape and it doesn’t hurt that bad. You’ll forget about everything! And the best part is? It works every damn time. Try it!”
Red. Every time I think about those shameful times, I always think of this color. It is more than just a symbol for blood and pain. It represents rebellion, and perhaps loneliness. I am your average sophomore. I’m a smart and happy girl who wouldn’t even think of hurting a fly. I like to smile. Smiling seems like the only mask I’ve got to show the world that I’m okay. But I’m not. Beneath those fake smiles is a screaming face hoping, dreaming, that someone would give a double take and actually listen.
I was an innocent 14 year old who recently plunged into the harsh world of modern day America. I was eager to forget about all the bullying I experienced in my old country. I was ready to draw the curtains from memories of name – calling, weight and height insecurities, family problems, and most especially, heart breaks. I wanted to start anew, like an old cherry blossom tree who decided that it was finally high time to bloom its flowers again. After my parents divorced, my dad found life in someone else’s arms. I was a mama’s girl. However, why is it that every time I see my friend’s dad taking them from school sparks a flame of jealousy in my heart? Was I missing my dad? No. I am an American. Independent, and therefore, depending on someone who isn’t here with me is simply foolhardy. My mother and I transitioned from pampered people into lower middle class. It was hard, definitely. It was difficult to live in a studio apartment from a big house and to adjust in a public school from a private catholic academy. I was not depressed. I was strong. I told that to myself every time I had to rummage through our suitcases to find spare change. I hated those nights when I just break down, realizing how lonely I am, and nobody cares. My sanity fell when my mother started to date.
Some people will call me a selfish person. Maybe I was or maybe I was just being a teen who has abandonment issues. I detested the fact that my mom dates. Looking back, I was just scared that she will leave me behind, and favor her new family over me, just like what my dad did. Peer pressure kicked in, and I found the insane strength to grab the blade and slash it across my wrists.
The feeling of cold metal slashing my arms was scary yet cool. I felt like a victorious warrior when I first saw the small droplets which eventually cascaded down my arms, like a red waterfall. I swore to only do it once. I marked my calendar X’s to mark which days I did it. But then I realized that once became twice, twice became thrice, that finally, my calendar was full of X’s. At first, I felt like I could belong with my friends who cut themselves too. No one noticed my odd secretive actions, and I continued to do my “dirty little secret” until it became routine. I was able to date a senior while I was doing this, and we broke up recently because of this. He told me that he was ashamed to call me his girl because of the cuts on my arms. Then it hit me. This has to stop. Now.
It’s addicting, and I was a moth drawn to the flame. But like every fire, it always gets out of hand. I was scared because I had no way out and I can’t tell my mom about it. I found inspiration in music, God and helping others. I decided to find myself instead of losing sight of who I really am. Cutting and suicide is never a solution. I woke up one day and asked myself, “I’m perfect in my own way. Why hurt myself?” Now, I see life in a new perspective. It’s a fun adventure, and precious as the red rose in a garden.