an. suicide self harm eating disorders
when i was in eighth grade, i held a steak knife to my wrist at four o'clock in the afternoon, standing at the kitchen sink. my mom was in the living room, just out of sight, and i tried to care more, but i couldn't. i stood there frozen until i heard her footsteps. i brought the knife to my room, but i didn't open my skin yet.
two years later i sat on my bed in the room i shared with my sister and wrote a(nother) suicide letter. it was all apologies and sorrow, inevitability. my sister was on her bed, only a few feet between us, but didn't notice i was crying. halfway through the letter, she told me she was going to bed. we turned off the light. the unfinished letter is still in my old journal.
there was a day in high school when i was home alone - a rare occurence; everyone lived with us - and my sister's pills were in the cabinet. i dumped them out in my hand, then felt guilty, afraid she'd have more seizures, and put them back.
i slept on the top bunk from the time i was ten until i was fifteen. almost every night i considered jumping off, just to see if i would die. i knew i wouldn't, so i didn't do it.
sometimes when i'm out smoking on the balcony, i lean over the edge, backwards, hoping i'll fall.
i have scars on my hips, my stomach, my thighs, even three on my left arm. two of the ones on my arm were too visible, so i got a tattoo over them, and now they're faded white lines, only noticeable if you know what to look for. the third is from a night in ninth grade. i was on the couch with my mom and siblings, watching lost, and had a panic attack. at the time i didn't know what was happening. i thought i was just crazy. i didn't want them to think i was looking for attention, so i pinched the skin on my wrist for the hour-long episode, as hard as i could, hiding under a blanket, and pretended everything was normal. later my mom asked if it was a bug bite, and i said yes. the scar was red and angry for years. now it's tiny, only a shade lighter than my skin, something no one could ever possibly see.
the point is, i have never attempted a grand suicide. i've planned them, i've prepared for them, but i've never followed through. instead i punish myself, over and over and over again, every day, with cigarettes and rough sex and razor blades and harsh words. i read somewhere that eating disorders are a polite form of suicide. i read somewhere that self-harm is an attempt to communicate with your body. when two huge parts of my life directly contradict each other - a cry for help, a simmering death - what does that mean?
what does anything fucking mean?