When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself. I was in seventh grade the first time I tried, and just continued dabbling with the idea off and on for a year or so. I’d probably been suicidal for a while; and at the very least depressed for a good many years. The first time I actually remember trying to cut myself I was around five, and stood in the kitchen by myself with a butter knife, ready to do some serious arterial damage. Of course, it would have taken me an awfully long time to draw blood with a butter knife, but look, I was only five, I wasn’t schooled in the proper techniques of murder and suicide. By the time I was in seventh grade I’d at least figured out that I should use some type of sharp instrument. Had my family made more money, I might have had a nice little razor blade to injure myself with. As it was, my family was on the poor side, so we had nothing but disposable razors in the house.
There I was, with my little pink Daisy razor with the flowers all over it, slicing away at my wrists, getting the feel of suicide in my bones. The skin cut easier than I thought, and hurt less than I expected. The slight sting was more tantalizing than scary, and the blood oozing out was rather intoxicating. These first few times I cut were more flirtations with danger than real attempts at death, but they got me hooked fast. The adrenaline in my body, the tension in my muscles, the power I felt over SOMETHING in my life was a sort of intense little window of possibility, where the world lay open for me, and it was MY choice to live or expire. In my world, having a choice was not common. Tempting myself with death became a particularly seductive past time. It meant freedom.
I began cutting my ankles along with my wrists. The veins on my ankles were puffy and prominent, and I began to imagine that if I managed to kill myself this way, perhaps I would end up in the local news as some sort of two minute celebrity for a bizarre and tragic departure. Girl dies at age 13, wrists and ankles bloody pulps. I also took pills, though, because I wasn’t just into cutting. I actually did want to get out of my life situation, and if that meant getting out of life, I was amenable to that.
If I had known back then how bizarre and interesting my life would be, I can’t say for sure that I would have made the same decisions. Today it is raining heavily, the cloud cover so dark it feels like it is nine o’clock at night, when it is only lunch time for me. There is a dark, moody feel about the day; somber, pensive, romantically deep. My life is full of these moments – full of intensely beautiful days where the sky is so blue it hurts my mind, and the contentment in my heart seems unique to humanity. There are days where I feel desolate, empty, unloved and barren. Days that I wonder how anyone can choose to love me because I am such a challenge and an emotional roller coaster.
But this is life. Up, down, inside, outside, colorful, dark, dramatic, silly, intense, monotonous, and spectacular. Every year the trees change colors before my eyes in a wonderful parade of life and death. Every year the sun comes back in the spring, coaxing hiding animals and tiny buds on trees to burst open with hope and life, and continue the cycle that has been going forever.
Had I known about these wonders when I was thirteen – about broken hearts and dreams dashed to pieces; about disappointments and sorrows, love lost and love expiring; about passion and desire and intimacy; about laughter and acceptance and people that love you enough to talk to you in the morning when you have Christopher Walken hair – I would have laid my Daisy razor down in the shower, and kept it for shaving. I would have spared my skin the worry and nervousness. I think. Because life is hard, and wicked, difficult and damaging. But the beauty in life – and the POTENTIAL beauty – is worth the risk.
Life is an accidental and beautiful happiness.
Still, I’m a surly little cur on a fairly regular basis.
Why can’t happy annoying people pick this up and leave you alone when you are like this?
I’m not good with small talk. I like good conversations, about real stuff. I don’t want to hear about how you cooked your dinner last night or how many times your daughter spit up on you. Well, it’s not that I DON’T want to hear these things. I don’t actually mind what the topic of conversation is, but I hate little chit chat in the office. Let me do my fucking work. I mean, I don’t mind talking here and there, but non-stop girly chatter makes me crazy.
Now, if you were talking about comic books, or Spike TV, or action figures, maybe I wouldn’t mind as much. But no, there are just days when I don’t feel like being grossly social like most gabby chatty women are supposed to be. Why can’t women understand that I am not like them?
Ok, and even if they can’t figure out that I am not like them, because they didn’t happen to notice that I wear cat ears I bought at Hot Topic, or they didn’t notice that I dress like a tomboy half the time, or they didn’t notice that I never go to any of the social activities they arrange where everyone’s family can meet everyone else’s family, can’t they at least tell from my face that I am not sociable on certain days?
I’m fairly certain that my cross, grumpy, sour face today should have made it plain to anyone with eyeballs that you don’t want to talk to me today. What is the deal?
I think I’m going to have to create my own beauty pageant banner to wear, that says “Leave Her the Fuck Alone”. Maybe that will get the hint across.
(addendum: some people are ok to approach me. the people i really like. the rest of everybody should note the banner. approach with caution if you are not a lover or bestest friend)