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Written @ 7:59 PM
Disclaimer: If you choose to read the following article, you might change your view on life.
Do you still want to continue?
I sat up on my bed and looked out of the window. My hair was in a mess, as if I escaped the mental hospital. I stroked my wrists and felt my veins protruding out of my skin even with plasters all over it. The nurse came in to check on me. I could barely smile. She helped me up and walked me to the washroom.
I peered reluctantly into the mirror, half expecting an ugly witch staring back at me. When I saw how haggard I had become, how my eye bags had sunk so deeply, how my eyes assumed the beseeching traits of an animal caught in a trap and how my once so chubby face become so wrinkled, and all the red spots…… I lost my mind. I screamed and trashed all the bottles laid out on the sink onto the floor, I tugged my hair, and I tried to scratch that horrible skin off my face. I was growling like a wild dog and scowling like an angry cat. I had no control over my emotions. I was crying and screaming my lungs out, the doctors rushed in and tried to pin me down.
I knew that I was wrong; I should be patient and stop being anorexic, because all these will not help my condition at all. I had never meant to bring my parents so much trouble but reality had thrown me into a corner; I was feeling so empty, lonely, alienated, rejected and misunderstood. I could stand it no more. I was both the victim, and the abuser.
People saw me as a lunatic, a depressed child but have they ever thought that a cut in the wrist speaks a thousand words which would otherwise remain untold?
I recalled the time which I had an abundance of friends. Friendships, was not something that would last. I had never understood what went wrong, was it my personality, my character or was it just my horrible appearance that pushed my friends away from me? What caused me to start weeping in a corner, whimpering, hoping nobody would notice? Sleep did not release me from my anxiety but rather plunged me into the darkness of my recurring nightmares.
I was alone. I studied alone, while my friends had study groups. I ate alone, while people ate in a clique. I sat alone in class while friends sat in pairs. I minded so much about how people thought of me, I became depressed. I started feeling stupid and gawky. The world seemed to look down and despise me. Everyone who walked past me had a disgusted look on their face. People were laughing at me.
Soon, I realized I could not control my emotions and my actions any longer. I started to inflict injuries on myself, my own body with my own hands. I started scratching myself. Then the scratching became more severe. So this was how depression feels like. I used to think that self mutilation was a silly form of gaining attention, but as my depression worsened, I realized that I would self-mutilate in private and in areas which the wound could not be seen. I was ashamed of my behavior but I could not pass a day without mutilating myself. I refused to see any psychiatrist nor psychologist for I thought of them as more people who would laugh at me. Could they return me whatever that I had lost? What could they do?
I took a deep breath and returned to the scene where the doctors were pinning me down. I felt a sharp sting in the middle of the back of my palm and I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and my soul trying to leave me as the doctors loosened their hold on me. My pace of breathing slowed down as numbness overwhelmed me. My vision soon became blocked by what seemed like a smokescreen and I soon lost consciousness.
I woke up, much calmer, but feeling a little groggy from the injection. I heard someone sniffing and weeping outside my ward. I slipped the door open, only to see my mother sobbing in my father’s arms. She muttered something which I barely caught.
“I would rather go to hell for her than to see her in one.”
I could see a teardrop roll down my father’s right eye. I had never seen him tear in my life. Never. I flipped my arm around slowly, only to see the numerous cuts I had left on my skin. I ran my fingers across them and realized that the cuts I had left in my parents’ hearts were far deeper. I tried to recall the last time we ever had a meal together as a family. I tried to remember the last time I saw my mother’s genuine smile, not one that was put on a brave front. I tried to remember the last time I gave my mother a smile. I couldn’t remember. They seemed so far away.
I decided to give it a try. I stepped out of my ward and walked towards my parents reluctantly. I have to, I must try. I must try to regain the old me.
“Mum, dad. Take me to Doctor Horsell tomorrow. I’ll try,” I had to muster a lot of courage to complete my sentence.
“For you,” I closed my eyes tightly and bit my lower lip. My father pulled me into his arms and hugged my tightly, nodding against my shoulder. I saw my mother’s relieved smile and I rested my head on my father’s shoulder.
It still seemed as if that scene just happened yesterday. Apparently, three years have passed and I started to believe in myself once again, like how I did. Doctor Horsell, my psychologist had made me realized that what I lost back then was not just my friends, my looks, but my confidence. She made me realize something even more important…… That I had never lost the love and support of my parents, and that they would stand by me even through my toughest period in life.
Do you still want to continue?
I sat up on my bed and looked out of the window. My hair was in a mess, as if I escaped the mental hospital. I stroked my wrists and felt my veins protruding out of my skin even with plasters all over it. The nurse came in to check on me. I could barely smile. She helped me up and walked me to the washroom.
I peered reluctantly into the mirror, half expecting an ugly witch staring back at me. When I saw how haggard I had become, how my eye bags had sunk so deeply, how my eyes assumed the beseeching traits of an animal caught in a trap and how my once so chubby face become so wrinkled, and all the red spots…… I lost my mind. I screamed and trashed all the bottles laid out on the sink onto the floor, I tugged my hair, and I tried to scratch that horrible skin off my face. I was growling like a wild dog and scowling like an angry cat. I had no control over my emotions. I was crying and screaming my lungs out, the doctors rushed in and tried to pin me down.
I knew that I was wrong; I should be patient and stop being anorexic, because all these will not help my condition at all. I had never meant to bring my parents so much trouble but reality had thrown me into a corner; I was feeling so empty, lonely, alienated, rejected and misunderstood. I could stand it no more. I was both the victim, and the abuser.
People saw me as a lunatic, a depressed child but have they ever thought that a cut in the wrist speaks a thousand words which would otherwise remain untold?
I recalled the time which I had an abundance of friends. Friendships, was not something that would last. I had never understood what went wrong, was it my personality, my character or was it just my horrible appearance that pushed my friends away from me? What caused me to start weeping in a corner, whimpering, hoping nobody would notice? Sleep did not release me from my anxiety but rather plunged me into the darkness of my recurring nightmares.
I was alone. I studied alone, while my friends had study groups. I ate alone, while people ate in a clique. I sat alone in class while friends sat in pairs. I minded so much about how people thought of me, I became depressed. I started feeling stupid and gawky. The world seemed to look down and despise me. Everyone who walked past me had a disgusted look on their face. People were laughing at me.
Soon, I realized I could not control my emotions and my actions any longer. I started to inflict injuries on myself, my own body with my own hands. I started scratching myself. Then the scratching became more severe. So this was how depression feels like. I used to think that self mutilation was a silly form of gaining attention, but as my depression worsened, I realized that I would self-mutilate in private and in areas which the wound could not be seen. I was ashamed of my behavior but I could not pass a day without mutilating myself. I refused to see any psychiatrist nor psychologist for I thought of them as more people who would laugh at me. Could they return me whatever that I had lost? What could they do?
I took a deep breath and returned to the scene where the doctors were pinning me down. I felt a sharp sting in the middle of the back of my palm and I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and my soul trying to leave me as the doctors loosened their hold on me. My pace of breathing slowed down as numbness overwhelmed me. My vision soon became blocked by what seemed like a smokescreen and I soon lost consciousness.
I woke up, much calmer, but feeling a little groggy from the injection. I heard someone sniffing and weeping outside my ward. I slipped the door open, only to see my mother sobbing in my father’s arms. She muttered something which I barely caught.
“I would rather go to hell for her than to see her in one.”
I could see a teardrop roll down my father’s right eye. I had never seen him tear in my life. Never. I flipped my arm around slowly, only to see the numerous cuts I had left on my skin. I ran my fingers across them and realized that the cuts I had left in my parents’ hearts were far deeper. I tried to recall the last time we ever had a meal together as a family. I tried to remember the last time I saw my mother’s genuine smile, not one that was put on a brave front. I tried to remember the last time I gave my mother a smile. I couldn’t remember. They seemed so far away.
I decided to give it a try. I stepped out of my ward and walked towards my parents reluctantly. I have to, I must try. I must try to regain the old me.
“Mum, dad. Take me to Doctor Horsell tomorrow. I’ll try,” I had to muster a lot of courage to complete my sentence.
“For you,” I closed my eyes tightly and bit my lower lip. My father pulled me into his arms and hugged my tightly, nodding against my shoulder. I saw my mother’s relieved smile and I rested my head on my father’s shoulder.
It still seemed as if that scene just happened yesterday. Apparently, three years have passed and I started to believe in myself once again, like how I did. Doctor Horsell, my psychologist had made me realized that what I lost back then was not just my friends, my looks, but my confidence. She made me realize something even more important…… That I had never lost the love and support of my parents, and that they would stand by me even through my toughest period in life.
Credits
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Family isn't about whose blood you carry, it's about who you love, and who loves you.