PublicDiary0606
"Noone can hear you scream when you're drowning"
- Feb 13, 2023
- 20
TW: Self Harm
Hello, I'm new to forums and I never really wrote much other than writing in my own personal physical diary. However, I realise books won't be read if they are stored somewhere secret. I want to write and express myself in a way that everyone else perhaps could read, learn, critic, or whatever... So feel free, to hate me if you want. It doesn't change the fact that I already have so much self-hatred. But if you do read this, I appreciate your patience, and thank you... it means a lot...
During my secondary school years, I am usually extroverted, to the point where I could start and carry a conversation with a total stranger without much effort. I love hanging out with friends and it keeps my energy up. But things worsen whenever I hear negative thoughts, and I can't hear my voice. Or anyone else's voice. I spiralled down being majorly introverted which is uncharacteristic of me. Every time I made a joke and no one laughed, or I start being goofy and all I got was stares, I felt as though no one wants me around. Which I know now could or may not be true. I isolated myself from people at that point and start being silent. I would eat lunch alone and would always use my phone during breaks instead of socializing with my classmates. I do realize they would invite me to play sports or eat together, but I was afraid of being hurt again so I kept away from anyone's company. Soon those negative thoughts worsen and do note, that at that point in my life, I do not know anything about depression or anxiety.
Every night before I go to sleep, I had voices telling me I should be blamed for my misfortunes, for not having friends, for not having people to like me, for not having any meaning, for not having anybody to talk to, and not having a family member who could give a damn about why was I being so silent. At that point, all I needed was someone to tap my shoulder and let me talk about what I felt. But surprise surprise, no one did. Feeling alone, I decided to write a diary. Where I would pour everything I feel into it. Without any filters or biases. Anything from political to sexual. And I would write them religiously every single day. I am already at the point where I would be afraid of meeting other people. I didn't want to interact with anyone else because it makes me more self-conscious, insecure and anxious about how I speak, look, etc. So, the safest way is to avoid everyone else. Especially with the people I know. Or used to know. I felt this way for months, and it continued for almost a year. From sitting alone in the canteen during lunch to hiding in the cupboard because I wouldn't want anyone to notice me. I used to be the one who is always posing in front of the camera during group photos but now, I believe everyone should just forget me because I am not worth anyone's time. No one should remember my name or who I was. As months go by, I realised my birthday was approaching.
With all those self-pity and blame, I decided to hurt myself. On my 16th birthday, I bought myself a gift. A box of disposable razor blades. It was cheap, easy to find, and sharp. I was curious and at the same time, felt like it was necessary. At that point, I hate myself like how anyone would hate anything with a passion. Ever since then, I would cut myself on my left arm in the toilet. My family would ask why I always take so long in the toilet and I would give a funny excuse like my stomach hurts or I was watching a video while taking a shit or fell asleep. It began with small cuts, watching droplets of blood trickle down my arm and it would make me feel slightly better knowing I am being punished. But soon the voices grew louder and I wanted to cut deeper, and deeper, wanting to see more of my own flesh and more blood. And it turned into a big problem. How the hell am I supposed to hide these scars at home and more importantly, in school? Well, the solution was simple, wear long sleeves at home and a jacket in school. (My secondary school had uniforms and it was a strict rule to not alter, or wear anything that covers your sleeves, modify your uniform, etc.)
It continued for a few weeks, soon, months. And all I was doing was adding more scars to my left arm, overlapping old wounds, even those that weren't fully healed yet. Months go by and it was about time to end the year. I was about to graduate from school and that gave me a bit of relief. I finally don't have to meet people outside and I could spend my time at home, in my room, and not bother anyone. When graduation day happened, everyone else was giving hugs, goodbyes, letters, signatures on their uniforms and taking pictures. I watched them as they laugh and smile at each other, and I had a bittersweet feeling. No one even noticed me. Not even the friends I used to hang out with. Not even a friend I had since kindergarten. It seems that everyone had forgotten that I exist. It hurts a lot, and it felt like I didn't even matter anymore. But at the same time, I was thinking, "Good riddance". Because what that means is that, I can finally disappear without anyone caring so much.
As I spend my time alone in my room, I spiral even deeper to the point where I planned to CTB. Thus the method I chose was hanging. I have a major fear of heights and I probably wouldn't have the balls to jump. Plus, I do believe it's kinda gruesome and I don't want the first responders to clean up my mess. Hanging seems cleaner to me. Though I might vomit out my tongue or lengthen my neck, it's better than being in pieces. Adding on, my race has this culture of cleaning up the dead and burying them so being in one piece is my concern. I didn't care about the pain, or the horror I would have to go through to finally end it. So, what I did was I bought a long strand of raffia string and tie braids of it. And braid the braids, hence making them thicker and stronger. (I learned this in school uniform groups and helping my sisters braid their hair.) Having prepared my location, time, and date, the last thing I needed was my final goodbyes and presentation.
I wanted to be creative with my goodbyes, instead of making a note and placing it beside where I'm going to be hanging, I planned to make a 3 min video of pictures of me, my friends, and my family with cuts of black background and text explaining the rationale behind my actions, my pain, and final wishes. It took me a few days to compile everything and another few weeks to learn and edit it. Upon rendering the whole video, I waited. To this day, I still remember the day I died. 31st December 2018, at 3:00 am. I wanted to do it. On that night, I was about to upload the video, and send it to a close friend of mine who knew my family, telling him to distribute the video whom he thinks deserves to know of my passing. My heart was racing as I set up my makeshift rope. Remember when I mentioned presentation? Before uploading my video, I wanted to myself bleed and not just a little, but a lot. So I did what I do best. On my arms, hands, and chest. While I stain my mouse and keyboard with my blood, I hover the cursor over the 'Upload' button. Coincidentally, I got a phone call from my sister. It was 2:45 am, 15 minutes before my death. She was outside, forgot to bring her keys, and needed someone to open the door for her. I hid my equipment, frantically closed the browser, wear a jacket, zip it up and acted like I was just about to go to sleep. I opened the door and let her in. She left her bag in my room and went straight to the toilet to wash up before heading to bed. I waited while lying in bed, and again, acting like I'm about to sleep. I checked the time, it was 3:15 am and she hasn't come out. As I waited, I fell asleep, only to be woken up by a bright light from my room and looking at my sister's horrified face. I was so fixated on CTB that I forgot that my blood could stain the bed, my shirt and my jacket. She closed the door, not trying to make any loud noises, and she asked, "What happened? Are you injured?". I replied with a faint "No". As she helped me take off my jacket, the dried blood that was stuck against my skin was peeled and my arms began to bleed even more. Then she saw the stains on my chest, so she took off my shirt and the same process happened again. At this point, all she was seeing was her pathetic cut-up little brother, with eyes that were as good as dead. Deafening silence filled the room, and all we did was stare at each other. Soon, it was broken by her sobs.
"Stay here, I'll get something to clean you up," she said softly. While I wait for her in the room, I looked at myself. "Should've been smarter..." I thought. She entered with a box of bandages, gauze and a bowl of water. She gently pulled my arm, start cleaning the blood and dressed my wounds. She did the same for my chest. It was silent, no words were being exchanged as she patched me up. I then stupidly say "Sorry...", but she cut me off saying "Please don't. Don't be sorry for this". For the first time, since the beginning of my depression, I heard words that spoke to me. As I watch her sob while wrapping the bandage around my arm, I started to cry.
"It's okay, take your time to tell me what's wrong. I may not be the best person to listen, but I'm letting you know that I'll listen to everything you have to say." She told me softly while her voice was covered by her sobs. I remained silent. No way I could tell her I was about to hang myself. Not to my sister, and not to someone so close to me. As she tidy up the 'first aid kit', I continued to cry. She offered to stay with me throughout the night until I could fall asleep. She took her pillow from her room and slept on the floor while I lie in bed. While she fall asleep after having a long day, I stared at the ceiling. Filled with thoughts of what happened. Was I finally heard? Will I be able to share my pain? Was I noticed once again? I didn't get to sleep, up until she woke up and said the words "I love you, you're the only little brother I could only have." That was when I start believing in hope again, or perhaps something to look forward to the next day. Moments later, I closed my eyes.
That is the end of my first chapter. I lived through that day to tell this story. Though it may seem like that one incident gave me a happy ending, I still have episodes where I would fall into a deep depression again. Fortunately this time, I am not alone. 2 years after that incident, I muster up the courage to get help in a hospital. I got diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder but my doctor speculated that it could be Clinical Depression since it mysteriously developed without many triggers or trauma. (Plus my family background which I will share on another day) To this day, the scars that I carved still exist. Sometimes I look at them and thought, what if I actually did it? What if I actually succeeded? The thought of everlasting peace still lingers in my head even after I got help. I realised I can never heal, it'll always come back and as long as I have the will to live, I need to endure. But who knows when will be the last story I'll ever write here.
Thanks for reading my first story. There will be more and I will try my best to improve my writing along the way. I hope it wasn't too confusing or sounded cringey. Do let me know your thoughts or share what you felt after reading about a part of my life. And if there are any questions, I'll try my best to answer to the best of my ability. Good night.
Hello, I'm new to forums and I never really wrote much other than writing in my own personal physical diary. However, I realise books won't be read if they are stored somewhere secret. I want to write and express myself in a way that everyone else perhaps could read, learn, critic, or whatever... So feel free, to hate me if you want. It doesn't change the fact that I already have so much self-hatred. But if you do read this, I appreciate your patience, and thank you... it means a lot...
During my secondary school years, I am usually extroverted, to the point where I could start and carry a conversation with a total stranger without much effort. I love hanging out with friends and it keeps my energy up. But things worsen whenever I hear negative thoughts, and I can't hear my voice. Or anyone else's voice. I spiralled down being majorly introverted which is uncharacteristic of me. Every time I made a joke and no one laughed, or I start being goofy and all I got was stares, I felt as though no one wants me around. Which I know now could or may not be true. I isolated myself from people at that point and start being silent. I would eat lunch alone and would always use my phone during breaks instead of socializing with my classmates. I do realize they would invite me to play sports or eat together, but I was afraid of being hurt again so I kept away from anyone's company. Soon those negative thoughts worsen and do note, that at that point in my life, I do not know anything about depression or anxiety.
Every night before I go to sleep, I had voices telling me I should be blamed for my misfortunes, for not having friends, for not having people to like me, for not having any meaning, for not having anybody to talk to, and not having a family member who could give a damn about why was I being so silent. At that point, all I needed was someone to tap my shoulder and let me talk about what I felt. But surprise surprise, no one did. Feeling alone, I decided to write a diary. Where I would pour everything I feel into it. Without any filters or biases. Anything from political to sexual. And I would write them religiously every single day. I am already at the point where I would be afraid of meeting other people. I didn't want to interact with anyone else because it makes me more self-conscious, insecure and anxious about how I speak, look, etc. So, the safest way is to avoid everyone else. Especially with the people I know. Or used to know. I felt this way for months, and it continued for almost a year. From sitting alone in the canteen during lunch to hiding in the cupboard because I wouldn't want anyone to notice me. I used to be the one who is always posing in front of the camera during group photos but now, I believe everyone should just forget me because I am not worth anyone's time. No one should remember my name or who I was. As months go by, I realised my birthday was approaching.
With all those self-pity and blame, I decided to hurt myself. On my 16th birthday, I bought myself a gift. A box of disposable razor blades. It was cheap, easy to find, and sharp. I was curious and at the same time, felt like it was necessary. At that point, I hate myself like how anyone would hate anything with a passion. Ever since then, I would cut myself on my left arm in the toilet. My family would ask why I always take so long in the toilet and I would give a funny excuse like my stomach hurts or I was watching a video while taking a shit or fell asleep. It began with small cuts, watching droplets of blood trickle down my arm and it would make me feel slightly better knowing I am being punished. But soon the voices grew louder and I wanted to cut deeper, and deeper, wanting to see more of my own flesh and more blood. And it turned into a big problem. How the hell am I supposed to hide these scars at home and more importantly, in school? Well, the solution was simple, wear long sleeves at home and a jacket in school. (My secondary school had uniforms and it was a strict rule to not alter, or wear anything that covers your sleeves, modify your uniform, etc.)
It continued for a few weeks, soon, months. And all I was doing was adding more scars to my left arm, overlapping old wounds, even those that weren't fully healed yet. Months go by and it was about time to end the year. I was about to graduate from school and that gave me a bit of relief. I finally don't have to meet people outside and I could spend my time at home, in my room, and not bother anyone. When graduation day happened, everyone else was giving hugs, goodbyes, letters, signatures on their uniforms and taking pictures. I watched them as they laugh and smile at each other, and I had a bittersweet feeling. No one even noticed me. Not even the friends I used to hang out with. Not even a friend I had since kindergarten. It seems that everyone had forgotten that I exist. It hurts a lot, and it felt like I didn't even matter anymore. But at the same time, I was thinking, "Good riddance". Because what that means is that, I can finally disappear without anyone caring so much.
As I spend my time alone in my room, I spiral even deeper to the point where I planned to CTB. Thus the method I chose was hanging. I have a major fear of heights and I probably wouldn't have the balls to jump. Plus, I do believe it's kinda gruesome and I don't want the first responders to clean up my mess. Hanging seems cleaner to me. Though I might vomit out my tongue or lengthen my neck, it's better than being in pieces. Adding on, my race has this culture of cleaning up the dead and burying them so being in one piece is my concern. I didn't care about the pain, or the horror I would have to go through to finally end it. So, what I did was I bought a long strand of raffia string and tie braids of it. And braid the braids, hence making them thicker and stronger. (I learned this in school uniform groups and helping my sisters braid their hair.) Having prepared my location, time, and date, the last thing I needed was my final goodbyes and presentation.
I wanted to be creative with my goodbyes, instead of making a note and placing it beside where I'm going to be hanging, I planned to make a 3 min video of pictures of me, my friends, and my family with cuts of black background and text explaining the rationale behind my actions, my pain, and final wishes. It took me a few days to compile everything and another few weeks to learn and edit it. Upon rendering the whole video, I waited. To this day, I still remember the day I died. 31st December 2018, at 3:00 am. I wanted to do it. On that night, I was about to upload the video, and send it to a close friend of mine who knew my family, telling him to distribute the video whom he thinks deserves to know of my passing. My heart was racing as I set up my makeshift rope. Remember when I mentioned presentation? Before uploading my video, I wanted to myself bleed and not just a little, but a lot. So I did what I do best. On my arms, hands, and chest. While I stain my mouse and keyboard with my blood, I hover the cursor over the 'Upload' button. Coincidentally, I got a phone call from my sister. It was 2:45 am, 15 minutes before my death. She was outside, forgot to bring her keys, and needed someone to open the door for her. I hid my equipment, frantically closed the browser, wear a jacket, zip it up and acted like I was just about to go to sleep. I opened the door and let her in. She left her bag in my room and went straight to the toilet to wash up before heading to bed. I waited while lying in bed, and again, acting like I'm about to sleep. I checked the time, it was 3:15 am and she hasn't come out. As I waited, I fell asleep, only to be woken up by a bright light from my room and looking at my sister's horrified face. I was so fixated on CTB that I forgot that my blood could stain the bed, my shirt and my jacket. She closed the door, not trying to make any loud noises, and she asked, "What happened? Are you injured?". I replied with a faint "No". As she helped me take off my jacket, the dried blood that was stuck against my skin was peeled and my arms began to bleed even more. Then she saw the stains on my chest, so she took off my shirt and the same process happened again. At this point, all she was seeing was her pathetic cut-up little brother, with eyes that were as good as dead. Deafening silence filled the room, and all we did was stare at each other. Soon, it was broken by her sobs.
"Stay here, I'll get something to clean you up," she said softly. While I wait for her in the room, I looked at myself. "Should've been smarter..." I thought. She entered with a box of bandages, gauze and a bowl of water. She gently pulled my arm, start cleaning the blood and dressed my wounds. She did the same for my chest. It was silent, no words were being exchanged as she patched me up. I then stupidly say "Sorry...", but she cut me off saying "Please don't. Don't be sorry for this". For the first time, since the beginning of my depression, I heard words that spoke to me. As I watch her sob while wrapping the bandage around my arm, I started to cry.
"It's okay, take your time to tell me what's wrong. I may not be the best person to listen, but I'm letting you know that I'll listen to everything you have to say." She told me softly while her voice was covered by her sobs. I remained silent. No way I could tell her I was about to hang myself. Not to my sister, and not to someone so close to me. As she tidy up the 'first aid kit', I continued to cry. She offered to stay with me throughout the night until I could fall asleep. She took her pillow from her room and slept on the floor while I lie in bed. While she fall asleep after having a long day, I stared at the ceiling. Filled with thoughts of what happened. Was I finally heard? Will I be able to share my pain? Was I noticed once again? I didn't get to sleep, up until she woke up and said the words "I love you, you're the only little brother I could only have." That was when I start believing in hope again, or perhaps something to look forward to the next day. Moments later, I closed my eyes.
That is the end of my first chapter. I lived through that day to tell this story. Though it may seem like that one incident gave me a happy ending, I still have episodes where I would fall into a deep depression again. Fortunately this time, I am not alone. 2 years after that incident, I muster up the courage to get help in a hospital. I got diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder but my doctor speculated that it could be Clinical Depression since it mysteriously developed without many triggers or trauma. (Plus my family background which I will share on another day) To this day, the scars that I carved still exist. Sometimes I look at them and thought, what if I actually did it? What if I actually succeeded? The thought of everlasting peace still lingers in my head even after I got help. I realised I can never heal, it'll always come back and as long as I have the will to live, I need to endure. But who knows when will be the last story I'll ever write here.
Thanks for reading my first story. There will be more and I will try my best to improve my writing along the way. I hope it wasn't too confusing or sounded cringey. Do let me know your thoughts or share what you felt after reading about a part of my life. And if there are any questions, I'll try my best to answer to the best of my ability. Good night.
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