Six Years

When I was twelve years old, I wanted to die. When I was twelve years old, I went to the park in the middle of spring with a winter scarf stuffed in the pocket of a coat I didn’t even need in the 70 degree weather of Iowa. When I was twelve years old, I climbed up the ladder of the monkey bars I had spent hours crossing during my childhood. When I was twelve years old, I tied that winter scarf to the bars and let my shaking hands wrap the scarf so tightly around my neck, I didn’t think it would ever come off; I fell. When I was twelve years old, my life flashed before my eyes; I failed to end it all. When I was twelve years old, I walked back home and nobody questioned why my body was trembling or why my neck was a violent shade of failure red; had somebody asked me, I might have said I wanted to die and never attempted again. When I was twelve years old, I wanted to die, and nobody said a word.

Perhaps if somebody had asked me why my face appeared pale and flustered, why it seemed there were tear stains among the bags underneath each eye, or why I was out of breath, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many years of my life hating myself. Had somebody cared for me when I existed in a makeshift world of “you’ll never survive,” “you’ll never love or be loved,” or “you’ll never be enough” maybe I wouldn’t find myself drenched in tears at 2 AM because those thoughts that rained on my 12 year old conscious have never truly left. If somebody had grabbed my hand as I passed block after block after block and asked me why, maybe, just maybe, I would have finally told somebody I was tired of living in a world revolving around the hatred of the body I was born into; maybe I would have been taught to love my body rather than rake a damn razor across it.

A year later, a man attempted to take my body for his own. His fingertips trailed up my prepubescent thighs as I was left wondering, “why is he touching me like my body is meant for his hands to grope?” I left him on my father’s couch and tried to hide myself in my room. I cried as he paced the hallway right outside my bedroom and held a knife so tightly my knuckles turned white as he entered. He walked closer and closer to me as I threatened to call for help, to call the police. His words echo across my mind to this day: “You can’t scare me. You can’t call them. I can do what I want. I’M in charge.” I threatened to call my father. The man finally left me. My cousin, FINALLY left me. I had to live with him until I finally had the courage to confide in my other cousin who in turn told her mother. My aunt became the woman who threatened to take me away from my dad if he didn’t kick the man out... that knife I clung so tightly soon became the only thing I trusted even when my house wasn’t haunted with his presence.

For years, I relied on a knife to carry me through my life. I relied on a knife to drown out the pain I felt over my familial struggles. When I could no longer bare living in a home filled with ghostly reminders of the past, my knife left daily streaks to remind me I was real, I was alive. When I was cast aside by family and friends, my knife became the only thing real to me. I was lost without it. I left my parents and moved in with my mother’s sister. My life went on but my closet was my sanctuary where my razors and my knife could be tucked away, never to be found by my aunt. It was in that house my reliance upon a blade was diminished, but it was in that house I was most dead inside. During those years in that household, was when I came to terms with every single wrong in my life and I wanted to die even more than my twelve year old self had.

When I was sixteen, I was taught my body would never be mine to hold; a man would always come around and take it for himself. When I was sixteen, my temple was invaded and I was never the same. My life spiraled into a black hole that sucked away every joyful memory or emotion I had ever experienced and replaced it with my dependence upon a man. A man would be the only reason for true happiness in my life because dammit, I must OBEY. I was sixteen, when I killed myself, when I allowed myself to be taken over by a man I did not know. He became the damn blade I had run from; I wanted to die.

I turned eighteen 43 days ago, and here I am. Breathing, smiling, LIVING. Here I am living without depending on another human being, without depending on a blade. Growing up, I wanted somebody to tell me I would be okay, I would survive. I AM ALIVE. I am thriving. Spring brings me nothing but happiness despite that hellish day six years ago. You see, I have learned the world cannot be blamed for my unhappiness or self hatred because how can you expect a world full of hostiles to establish love for you when you yourself cannot reciprocate that love for yourself or the world around you? At twelve, I did not know this. When I was twelve, I wanted to die, but nobody said a word.