I was fourteen, sitting in my grandparent’s bathroom with a razor in between my fingers wondering how they would find me. I never could cut deep enough to hit a vein, not with the dull razors I pulled off of eyeliner pencil sharpeners from my mother’s dirty make-up bag.
I never succeeded, so I’d just put a band aid on, pull my sleeves down, and carry on. My mother found out a few weeks after I had decided to stop hurting myself. She cried and screamed and asked why why why, I never answered. I kept my mouth shut and she bought me a tube of scar cream. We moved on. I traded my razors for weed and whiskey and cigarettes.
I’m twenty-one, laying in my boyfriend’s bed, my thoughts of suicide have become so common over the years that I don’t even think about it as suicide anymore. It’s not that I want to die, it’s that I don’t want to exist. I don’t want to be found in a red bathtub, wrists slashed. I don’t want to die in a dramatic way, that’s why it would be so much easier to just no longer exist. I want to disappear without a trace, everyone’s memories wiped, I want to have never existed. This is the source of a lot of my anxiety, my desperate fantasy of no longer existing.
I met my boyfriend in his basement a little over 6 months ago, I was so naïve I truly believed he was the one who was going to save me, finally. After years of being used, abused, thrown away and forgotten I thought maybe this was the one. All I’ve learned over these past 6 months is that I’m stuck with me.
I don’t think it’s that I don’t want to exist, it’s that I don’t want Hailee Jo to exist, she’s a horrible human. I keep wanting someone to save me, but from what? From myself. And the problem is, no one can save you from yourself, they can only distract you from yourself. You have to find what it is in yourself that you need saving from, and kill that. I’ve been trying to drown it out with whisky, wine, beer, vodka, it seems to be able to swim very well.