The Monster Inside Me

The Monster inside Me

         I watched the blood drip down my fingertips. I could taste fear, anxiety, and self-punishment. I was a girl of thirteen struggling with a monster. I held my breath as the knife slit two vertical lines across my bony white wrist. Tears fell on my desk, leaving a stream straight to the floor. My mind screamed, “Stop, Kim, you don’t need to do this!” Oh brain of mine, you are wrong. This is what’s keeping me alive and sane! Leave me alone and let me shed this coat of self-loathing, the slits were shallow; as if the knife barely kissed my skin, but the bloods puddle was outstanding just from those little cuts. It was enough to release my inner sins and let out the poison that swam in my veins. I always wondered if self-harm was the cure to my depression, or could it make it worse?

         I went to school the next day hiding my cuts with a pink Happy Bunny wristband. No one saw behind my fake smile and deceiving eyes. No one knew my secret pleasure of pain and blood. My peers were never as welcoming as they should have been to a brand new face with no friends. I sat towards the back of almost every class, trying to stay invisible. Little paper balls kept skimming the back of my head. My mind was telling me to “Stay calm, they’ll get bored and stop.” I was slowly coming to a boil, too close to erupting. Tears welled up in my eyes, and then I glanced back just as a huge wad paper smacked me square on my forehead. The cackles from the group behind me stung my ears.

         Teachers expected me to do homework, pay attention and study, but I couldn’t handle it. I barely got out of bed in the morning let alone worry about essays, equations, and book reports. My life was wavering on a tight rope about to snap. I felt as if I should have told someone, but no one would have cared. No one would understand the sick addiction of pain and blood. I debated this in my mind almost every day, while others ran around and flirted and teased each other. It looked so fun, but they didn’t want to include me. My mind would whisper, “Kim, it will be okay. Get help. You’re not alone.” I sighed, but I am! No one can help me; I just need my knife. I crushed my conscience into the dark corner of my mind with my imaginary friend Sally, repressed memories, and forgotten faces.

         The second time I went a little deeper, watching the little droplets get bigger and bigger made my whole body tremble. My mind was screaming at me again. “Kim, stop!” I ignored the pleas. If my parents wanted me, maybe I wouldn’t be gripping a knife and bloody towel right now. They could have loved me, and it would have been okay. They could’ve taken care of me and I wouldn’t have turned out this way.

         Mommy didn’t want me, so she left me with a man whose breath had a liquor scent and whose mind had a claw around it named Shelly. The welts stung when I sat, stood, or even moved. Belts used to hold up pants were used to punish a crying girl for something as little as spilled milk. Those are the kind of scars you can’t see, but that burn deep beneath the skin. When my dad decided to abandon me and drop me off at a stranger’s door I was chanting in my head, “I’m free! I’m safe!” The house before me was unlike one had I had ever lived in before. It smelled clean and looked extravagant. Compared to my houses growing up, I was in a palace. A new life was upon me, everything was going to change, and I was excited. The feeling didn’t last very long.

         “Do this! Do that!” Suddenly I was being told what to do and what to wear. My whole life up until that point was based on my own rules and staying out of the way. Now, I was being watched and criticized every waking moment. My mind tried to calm me down, “It’s okay, five years from now and you’ll be eighteen.” I blew out a sigh. Thanks, that’s so uplifting. I just have to wait five years! My sanity was slipping through my blood stained fingers. As I prayed for somebody to save me, depression crept inside my soul and made me do things I never thought I would do. I had fights with my mind, almost as if it were another person, I thought about ending it so many times. I almost did it once.

         The blade was light in my hand, grazing the scars I had been working on for months. My mind was shaking and saying “Let’s not do this; don’t give up!” The screaming battle inside my brain delayed my plan. It was supposed to be just me and the knife, but my mind kept butting in. Everyone in the house was asleep; they wouldn’t find me until morning. Just a cut here, a slice here, and maybe a stab right below my navel. I’d just let the blood pour onto the carpet in red pools as the life drained out of my body. Let my suffering and pleading die along with me. Please just let me do it I thought, but my mind yelled louder, “Kim! No. You’re so young and beautiful.” My tears were burning my face. My whole body was quivering. I was staring at the knife that controlled me for so long, clinging to it for comfort. I felt uncertain as I let the knife slip out of my blood streaked fingers. Violently shaking I whispered, “You win, but this had better be worth it.” I could hear soft cries and an even softer thank you.

The battle was far from over, and I had come so close to taking my own life. That day was the last day I cut my wrists. I don’t remember the exact day or month, but I remember the pain, blood, and scars. Its vivid pictures flash through my nightmares, proving that depression doesn’t just go away. It’s an illness that stays with me wherever I go. It clings to every move I’ve made; every choice I’ve made is blackened with this self-loathing illness I can’t squash. No one knows how I got it or how to cure it, it’s just there. The scars have long ago faded, but I can still see them. They are not just proof of my suicidal thoughts, but also the reminder that I didn’t do it. I’m still here, and I don’t plan on ending it after all I have accomplished and plan to achieve. Life is too precious to give up. Through the battle inside me I found the real me. Inside the dark and dreary shell I was a passionate writer, full of love, smiles, and appreciation. I learned to be thankful for life and to keep my head up even if things are looking down because in the end life really is a gift and it should not be wasted.