Blurriness. That’s what I remember from my past. Blurriness, and sometimes small flashbacks that remind me of certain events that happened, when I was still a child. Tears and pain are the second words that come to my mind when I try to think about it. Suffocation and fear. Trying to be the best. To impress. Trying to find myself. Failing at it. Being a failure. Self harming. Not good enough - not for you or them; not for me; not for anyone. Depression. Reaching out for help. Being denied it. Suicidal. Falling deeper and deeper. More self harming. Longing more and more for death. Worthless. Anorexia Nervosa. Fears. Given help and ‘losing it’. Loneliness. Blood. Hopeless. Goodbye and farewell.

I don’t know what started it. Perhaps the constant screaming and fighting at home. Perhaps the fights I had with my brother, that could reach levels that involved violence. Perhaps the people at my school could be blamed, too. Perhaps my teachers. Perhaps my so called friends. Perhaps fate. Perhaps someone or something else. I don’t know for sure. But perhaps…it was really always only me. 

Let me tell you about a time, when everything started to fall apart. Let me tell you about my story.

My story begins many many years ago. I was born into a family, which seems pretty normal. I have a mum and a dad, an older brother. My mom doesn’t work anymore since I was born and my dad is a teacher, aiming for his magister’s degree. My brother is working, yet I’m sure no one is really interested in what exactly he does. The important thing, though, is, what’s behind each of these characters.

Since I was a small child I always had to carry a heavy weight on my shoulders. A pressure on my chest. I’ve grown up with the conviction that I’m worthless as long as I’m not sucessful. Now, don’t get me wrong, my parents didn’t tell me “You are worthless, as long as you don’t…” or anything remotely close to that expression. No, they were more subtle. Sometimes it feels like that made it even more easier for that belief to creep into my unconsciousness and to stay there forever and ever - until the day I die. They made me feel like I had no choice, but to be the best. Their perfect little child. Especially during the times, when I started to notice their constant bickering and screaming. Of course, I didn’t want them to do that, so I was a lovely, charming girl - troubling no one. Keeping everything bad to myself. I wanted them to see that whatever happens, everything would always be fine. When in reality nothing was alright.

My anxiety and sadness started, I believe, in my first elementary school. I was 6 years old and a very quiet child, which I’m sure you’ve already assumed. I didn’t have any friends, besides two, whom I’ve gotten to know during kindergarten. Even though I really tried my best, I was a..slowly child. I needed a lot of time for reading and writing certain stuff down. I was horrible at maths and my grades weren’t the best. Yet I still tried to smile, to make it look like I had everything under control. (“It’s alright, mommie. I can do it by myself!”) Gradually my kindergarten friends changed the school, and I was left alone in that big place. Needless to say that I felt lonely. I had to walk home alone, even though lots of other children went into the same direction as me. Up until today I still have no idea, why, but they laughed a lot about me, which of course increased my sadness. I was scared of walking the same way home as they did, because they called me names, spit on my body and my stuff, so I always used to take a big detour.

One year after this, we moved away from there, and I had to change schools. I wasn’t only terrified of going there, because I was the new one, but also because I needed to teach myself a lot of stuff. (This school was faster than my first elementary school.) Because I wanted to impress everyone, I managed it anyway. I learned everything, got better grades, managed to make friends, managed to read “heavy” books, which weren’t even for my age. I tried my best and I was nearly living a carefree childhood during that time. I say nearly because even though my school life got better, life at home didn’t. 

The fighting increased. I saw my dad hitting my mom. I saw her crying, refusing to look at him anymore. It disturbed me, to say the least. I didn’t want to see my mother crying. I wanted her to feel good and to smile. And even though I managed to make her look alright again, I still saw that deep sadness in her eyes.

When I started grammar school, which is, I believe, the equivalent to a high school, everything only got worse. I tried making friends, but it didn’t last. They turned away from me and soon they started making fun of me, bullying me. The teachers refused to do anything about it, and even after years they still told me that I’m surely just misunderstanding their behaviour. That I should just try harder. That it was my fault that they behaved like that. Despite the fact that, yes, I was different, because I was quiet and reserved, because I liked other things, because I simply didn’t do a lot of stuff like they did, I never understood in how far that could give them the right to hate me. And even now, while I’m older, I still don’t understand it. I’m sure you’ve already figured that out, but I’m going to mention it anyway. I didn’t like school. I wasn’t able to achieve good grades, was too scared and worried to say anything to my parents, so I just got on with my life. Of course they saw that my grades weren’t the best, which resulted in them telling me that again I should try harder. That I should invest more time in learning than in anything else. And so I did. I managed again without help to become better at school. My grades still fluncuated, and even though that alone made me already feel not good enough, it was “okay”.

At home my brother was becoming more and more distant, but because this is my story and not his, I’m just going to say that he became sick, too. My parents and him started to scream at each other a lot and up until today this hasn’t changed. They still argue a lot, while their voices echo through our home. My parents started to took out their anger on me, even if I did nothing wrong, so that the slightest mistake on my part could tick them off. I was hit for my mistakes and failures. I wasn’t allowed to do anything alone, needed to be watched most of the time, and even if I managed to make any “friends” I still wasn’t allowed to visit them on my own. (This state stayed until the year 2010.) I felt so trapped and scared and I don’t believe that I will ever be able to shake these feelings off.

Nevertheless, I also felt more alone than ever, while my self-hate started to increase inside of me. Surely, if everyone acts like this towards me, then it must be my fault. Something must be wrong with me, am I not right? It is me. It must be me.

This belief is still deep inside of me.

I’m wrong for feeling, for doing things, which I’m not supposed to do. For wishing and hoping for something, which I don’t deserve.

I’m the one, who always makes everything worse, so I’m better off dead, right..?

While the hitting ceased over the time, and my mother apologized for it this year, it still left a deep scar inside of me.

I started hitting myself for my mistakes. I believed that I deserved the pain and that I should be punished, while I secretely wished that I’d just die. When hitting wasn’t enough, it was scratching. Now it’s cutting with any sharp object I can get my hands on.

Over the time I became more and more depressed, and even today I can feel it increasing with each day. I’m surrounded by this never ending darkness.

School made me feel so incredibly anxious and suicidal, that most of the time I would spend my time in the room, where the toilets were located, to cut myself. To see the blood running down my arms. It calmed me down and helped me breathing again.

While with my depression most of my feelings switched to help-, hopeless- and emptiness, I also lost other ones. Happiness is a foreign word to me and I can honestly say that the last time that I really felt that way, was many many years ago. Besides that, I also lost that hunger feeling. I simply wasn’t hungry, so I started throwing or giving away food, which resulted in me losing weight. So, while I was a complete failure in all the other areas in my life, I saw that I was able to “achieve” something. Namely losing weight. And in the beginning, yes, it felt like a success to me. After so many years of sadness and emptiness, I’ve finally found something that made me feel better. So I kept throwing away food, refusing to eat, lying to my mother about whether or not I’ve eaten, and I lost and lost and lost, while my sanity went out of the window.

This was the beginning of my eating disorder. Of me losing any hope that I had left.

Today, of course, I don’t see it as a success or anything remotely close to it anymore. Eating disgusts me to the point that I can’t stand someone else doing it anymore or listening to the chewing sound. If I’m forced to eat, I feel guitly. Get the urge to purge, or to take something like laxatives, although I am aware that these kind of things don’t help me anyway. When I look into the mirror, I can only see fat, while everyone else tells me that I’m being ridiculous, because obviously I am thin. Too thin.

The fact that I can’t see it doesn’t seem to worry anyone though. Advices like “Just fucking eat.” or “Just enjoy your life.” are thrown very easily into my direction. Really helpful advices seem too difficult. Even my therapists weren’t of any help.

Today, I am 20 years old. I feel more depressed and lonely as ever. Suicidal thoughts are on my mind every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second. I’m officially diagnosed with anorexia nervosa (restrictive type), depression and severe social anxiety disorder and even after years I still haven’t stopped with my self harming behaviour. Anything that seems self-destructive enough to torture me belongs to me and my life. I just can’t help it, but long for it.

I had, up until now, three therapists, five psychiatrists and several medication. Nothing has helped me so far. I’ve tried killing myself two times, but I’m still alive, still breathing, and my heart is still beating. But the question is for how long? (Personally I don’t believe that I will ever reach my 21st birthday.)

My body is already showing that he is not okay with the way I’m treating him. My heart feels funny more often, and my chest (and the rest of my body) hurt/s nearly everyday so much that I can barely breathe and that moving hurts too much. Yet, I can’t seem to stop. Starving, exercising, purging, taking laxatives, overdosing on pills and other things seem to be part of my everydaylife - as well as self harming and not being able to fall asleep.

And I know - all of these things (I’ve probably forgotten something, might add and update some other time) may not seem much to you. Maybe you are even thinking that I’m exaggerating, that I should just suck it up and go on with my life, but yet - I can’t. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want to become depressed, to still be hit (now by someone else, namely) by my brother if he believes that I did something wrong, to end up with an eating disorder, to hear all these insulting voices inside of my head. This was never my choice. Never my intention. 

All I can say is that I wouldn’t mind it that much to die. I’m tired and exhausted. I have no energy left and this life, this world, isn’t making it any better. I feel like there is a monster beneath all this fat and skin, like I am a monster..only hurting others, failing at everything, just being a good for nothing..a waste of space.

I’m sorry that I’m still alive.