My Life in the Hands of Literacy

I’m sitting in one of the four corners in my room with my knees drawn up against my chest, looking at the knife in my hand. What would happen if I took my life, right now? There might be some people sad to lose me, but not a lot. I’d easily be forgotten, just another teen lost to suicide.

Tears stream down my face as I contemplate the ending of my life. I don’t want to do it. I’d give anything to feel well again, but everyday feels like the day before. Every day is like the spin cycle on a washer machine. It keeps going around and around without any variety. I’m not doing anything with myself. Sure, I go to school, but I’m failing. I have friends, but I’m just going through the motions. My dad is constantly on my case; my stepmom is ridiculous, and my little sister…everything I’m not.
I hold the blade to my wrist and I do it…

No, I didn’t commit suicide. I cut my wrist like I had done plenty of times before. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to end it at that moment. After a while I finally realized I needed help. So, I told on myself. I got help, I joined a group, and I stopped cutting. That sounds easy, but it was a journey. It took time and patience and the willingness.

If my father knew I was depressed, that I was cutting, he never showed any signs. He never asked if I was okay. Part of what led to my depression was the vibe he gave off to me all the time. It was like a warning vibe. That feeling always kept me from telling him how I felt. I wish I could of told him how angry I was, how heavy my heart felt on a daily basis, and how much I wished he loved me enough to care. My depression was my armor against the emotional onslaught I received every day.
One of the reasons my father’s negativity towards me affected me so bad was because when I was younger, I was his baby girl. I was his pride and joy. I could do nothing wrong. It’s too bad it did not stay that way.
Another reason my depression worsened was because I didn’t have any motivation. I didn’t have anybody pushing me, telling me to get up and do something with myself. When I woke up in the morning, it was with dread. That was the saddest thing of all.
I idolized my father when I was younger. At least until I was sixteen. Before, everything my father did was right. He definitely could do no wrong. He was my god in a way. I never questioned him. I looked to him with blind faith. I couldn’t tell you when my eyes finally cleared and I saw him for the controlling person he was.
At this point, I felt like I had nothing to lose. So, I take my life, then what? Well, because of my religion, I’d say I would be in hell. What would that mean for the people still alive? Would someone mourn me? I’m curious as to who would be there after I was dead. Maybe that’s why I did not do it. I wanted to see their faces when they found me. I felt a grim satisfaction thinking my father would find me. He’d be the one to see my body first and wonder why I did it. I honestly believe he did not know I was depressed or that anything was