1. My mother used to say that sadness is always temporary, and I’m trying real goddamn hard to keep that in mind but it’s hard when I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck in a storm for years now. It just keeps on raining and pouring and my heart is flooding and not a single person realizes just how close I am to drowning. My friends tell me to “forget about it” or to “just cheer up”, and if I hear somebody say the word “smile” as if it’s a demand that’s easily obeyed one more time, I might just throw up.
2. Last year, when I asked one of my teachers if I could be excused from an exercise through tears and a broken heart, she got mad at me for “not co-operating.” When I refused to do what she asked, she sent me out of the class and told me not to come back. If I had been bleeding or puking or anything else that was tangible, odds are she would’ve let me sit there and recover. I’m sick and tired of depression being treated like a made up excuse. It hurts, it hurts so bad and I pray to fuck that in ten years from now sadness will be a viable excuse for staying home from school or work because sometimes, we all need a day to collect ourselves and stitch our pulled seams back together.
3. At a family dinner six months ago my uncle overheard me and a cousin discussing white ink tattoos, and how beautiful it was that they resembled scars so closely. After listening to this, he said “But then you would look like a cutter.” It shattered my heart to hear those words, wrapped so tightly in judgement and disgust. Being someone who self harms does not make you weak or pitiful or appalling. It makes you fragile, and people need to understand that you’ll only get strong if they’re patient as your scars heal up.
4. When I was thirteen, I decided to show a close friend the cuts that were wrapped around my thighs like ribbons. While I pulled down the side of my leggings, my heart was in a glass case. When she asked me why “I didn’t just stop doing it”, the case smashed hard and fast. Secrets are painful to hold, but telling them and receiving such negative reactions, lacking both understanding and sympathy, hurts a whole goddamn more.
5. A razor or scale can draw you in and grab hold of you just as tightly as a bottle or a baggie can. My aunt, an alcoholic and a beautiful woman, often lectures me on how bad addiction can get. She has no idea what I’ve been through or how I’ve felt, and I appreciate her words but I know that occasionally, they aren’t true. “It’s not as bad as it looks, a lot of the time.”, she’ll say with a bottle in hand. But it is. Fuck, it is.
If we lived in a world where sadness was understood to be a sickness, then there would probably be a whole lot less of it.
OH MY GOD WHENEVER I SAW “COSMO SEX TIPS” I DIDN’T REALISE PEOPLE MEANT THE MAGAZINE I WAS ALWAYS IMAGINING