DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
What’s the difference between physical and emotional pain? Well, according to the Internet, physical pain is an unpleasant feeling often caused by intense or damaging stimuli. For example: cutting your finger, burning your hand on the stove, breaking your leg or hitting your head; that’s a pretty definitive answer. You are able to sum up physical pain. What about emotional pain? What does that mean? Well, the “dictionary” definition when you Google search emotional pain doesn’t even pop up. It immediately changes your search to psychological pain: an unpleasant feeling of a psychological, non-physical origin. Do you understand? These two definitions differ in not only the words that are used, but the feelings described. So how do you describe emotional pain, is it heartbreak, how about betrayal, or maybe just sadness? Right now, before I begin to tell you my story, think of how many definitions of emotional pain there are and realize how hard it is for someone to go through every single experience you just thought of. Now, how surprised would you be if I told you I probably have been through just about every word you just thought of? Oh and by the way, I’m 14.
We all have family shit, right? Teens fight with their parents; parents fight with their siblings. Happens all the time, doesn’t it? Yeah, I get that; but the way I saw and heard it was not like any “argument.” This involved death threats, lots of cursing, and other things I don’t even want to write about. Think about the worst you can, that is what I went through.
To start off, my mom and her brother never really had a great relationship ever since they were younger, but we always knew in an emergency, he’d fly down in a minute. When we were together on holidays there would always be a fight but no one ever said anything about it because it would be all better the next day. This one was different. Screaming at each other about depression and politics and things that should be kept quiet. First I heard, “She [meaning my grandmother] is fucking depressed! There’s nothing we can do. Nothings going to ever change that!” That’s from my uncle’s side. The response I heard was in a whisper, but a firm whisper at that, “We can help her. She will get better. We just have to act like we love each other in front of her. Mommy’s clinical depression is because of us. We are the reason she takes medication. We are the cause of her needing to see a psychiatrist. It’s our problem and we need to fix it.” The next thing I heard was in a matter of yells and shouts, “THIS IS NOT MY FUCKING FAULT. THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN FUCKING DO! THIS IS THE END OF HER.” I had to hang up the phone, thinking my grandma was going to die. That could never happen, I needed her.
I asked my mom about it when I heard her hang up the phone and she just yelled, “This is not your fucking problem. What are you even doing, listening to my conversations anyway? GET OUT!” So I walked out of the house and came back about four hours later. Before I left though, I grabbed one thing, my razor. Tonight, with tears running down my face like a gentle, calm waterfall, would be the night that I, a fourteen year old girl, would cut myself for the first time.
Cutting yourself, one of the scariest activities you can ever take part of, yet one of the most relieving. The first time, trying to understand the differences you will go through is the scariest part. Once you make the choice though, you know you made the right one. For now, you understand you are different and sad and scared. Wherever you decide to make those scars that last for a very long time will stare at you 24/7 with wide eyes that never seem to blink. They assure you of your decision. Those marks that will bleed and then dry out, will remind you constantly of your choice, whether that is a good or bad thing, I can’t tell you. That’s up to you. The way I saw it though, it was great. My razor with the purple blade was my savior. It was always there for me when I got home from school; it allowed me to relieve myself and allowed me to be happy. To know I always had a safe house, a confidant. Doesn’t that sound like a friend, someone you can confide in, depend on, someone to tell you that it’s going to be ok? Obviously, a razor can’t be a friend, it’s a device used for hair removal. For me, though, that’s not the case. My razor was my one and only real friend.
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