My Darkest Moment

A summer or two ago (I can’t really remember, I’m not great with time) I went with my family to visit my grandparents in France.

During that trip, I hit rock bottom.

I don’t know why, but I was so depressed that trip. I would stay in my room for hours with my windows shut (even though temperatures were high) and my shades drawn. At noon, the room would be pitch black.

I also wouldn’t eat, and when I did, I would only eat small portions. I knew that my grandparents were getting worried about my lack of appetite, but frankly, I didn’t care.

My family saw all of this; I was pretty bad at hiding my feelings, and I was irritable and would lash out at them. I knew I was being cruel to them and I knew they were getting tired of dealing with me, but I didn’t care.

They knew about all that. But what they didn’t know, what I didn’t tell them, was that one day I had stolen a knife from the kitchen and brought it to my room. For the next few days after that, I would hold the knife to my arm and try to gather the courage to cut myself.

For whatever reason, guilt, shame, fear, whatever, I didn’t go through with it, and I’m thankful for that. But to this day I’m so ashamed that I allowed myself to get to that point without telling someone and asking for help. I guess I was scared that my family would think I was trying to get them to pay attention to me or something. The point is, I regret not telling anyone, and I should have swallowed my pride and my fear and confessed.

So if you’re thinking of hurting yourself or already hurting yourself, please, please, please go tell someone and get help. A few minutes of feeling ashamed is worth it if it means not hurting yourself and getting treatment.



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