| My Story I was born in 1988 and just a little after I was born, my father was admitted to a hospital for withdrawl symptoms of Hallcuim, a very powerful drug that he was put on much longer than he should have been. He was released after a week, and one day, my father said to my mom, "I'm going for a walk." This didn't seem right because my dad never went on walks. She went upstairs and he was jumping out the window. He broke his hip and was sent back to the hospital, in restaints, and stayed there for a couple of weeks. Over the next couple of years, no more incidents like this happened, except he started to have migranes, sleeping trouble and suffered from severe depression. By the way, I knew none of this until December, 1998. He had started to ignore me, completley. He didn't talk to me much, and when he did it was very basic. One day, in December, I came home from school and as usual he said, hello, how was school, and then he grabbed a glass of milk and then went upstairs. My mom came home, asked where my father was. I told her I didn't know and then she went upstairs. She came back down, and told me my dad was passed out on the floor of the bathroom. We called an ambulance, and he had taken a bottle of sleeping pills, and a bottle of Valuim. He was okay but I was terrified. That was the night I found out about everything. Before I only knew he had headaches, and to this day, I still resent the fact I wasn't told about all of this. He went in and out of the hospital pysche ward. Getting better and then getting worse, I couldn't stand seeing him in the hospital. On the week of May 3rd, 1999, he told us he had a leave for the weekend and to pick him up on Thurday. On Wednsday, May 5th, as we left he kept saying to me, "Goodbye I love you, to me and for the first time I saw a tear in his eye. Little did I know this was the last time I would see him. On May 6th, 1999, my mom went to pick him up straight after work. At seven, a friend of my father's called and said that their car broke down and wouldn't be back for a while. At eight my mom came home with two people I didn't know. I asked where Papa was, and my mom told me and my brother to come into the living room. She told me my dad killed himself. I broke down into tears. He had jumped seven stories to his death. This plagued me for a long time, even now it still does. I was 10 at the time, it was 24 days before my birthday too. I was normal, well as normal as you can be after your best friend, your father dies, until about grade seven. I started to write poetry. I published them on a site that doesn't exist anymore, but I started to read a lot of poetry about cutters. One day, after my brother called me a whore, I grabbed a knife from the drawer and slid it across my leg. It didn't do anything, so a couple days later, I grabbed a razor instead and pressed it against my forearm. Everyone at school asked what it was and ashamed, I didn't reply. I started to cut on my thighs, and it got worse. Sometimes 15 at a time, sometimes at many as 23. My mom found out in July, 2001, when she saw my leg and asked what it was. When she asked if I cut myself, I broke down. At first I told her I had climbed a tree and my leg scraped against it or something but she knew. Over the next couple of days we went to see my doctor. I had therapy with him every so often, but it didn't help. I started high school, with the only people I knew there, popular people who hated me. I started cutting again and eventually, on September 21st, 2001, I tried to kill myself by OD-ing on Advil. I called my best friend, went over to her house and her Grandma called an ambulance, poision conrol and my mom. I ended up fine. I started on Paxil and switched schools, very soon after. It helped me alot, and in February, 2002, I went of it. In April, I was back on and I stayed on until September 17, 2002, when I cut a lot more, and tried to kill myself again, this time OD-ing on Paxil. I had to drink charchol, the nastiest tasting thing on earth. They refered me to TRAC, an adolescent therapy office, where I'm still going to. It's been over a year since my last suicide attempt, and I've cut myself once in 8 months. It's very rare that get urges now, and I'm not on any medications. I've been on Zoloft, and Paxil. Although Zoloft helped a bit, I've decided to never take anti-depressants again. For some, they work, and help them have a life, but for me, the side effects weren't worth it. Although I"m dealing with other issues now, I'm not cutting. My scars are fading, and I don't depend on a shiny metal object to take all my problems away. I can't tell you exactly how I stopped. I just realised that I didn't need it anymore. No one really does. No one should have to depend on a pink Gilette to find relieft. There are so many healthier, better ways of coping. Write, dance, draw, make art, go for a run, go to therapy, talk to someone. You don't have to face this alone. You can get through it. |