Unnameable Lust

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Story about a girl.

Submitted: November 11, 2011

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Submitted: November 11, 2011




She was eight, when it happened for the first time. She saw the bottle in the cupboard, they had been painting that day. Her daddy had told her ‘Don’t spill ANY paint on the floor’. She did. She felt the terror that came before the screaming, but it didn’t happen. Her daddy told her sisters to clean themselves off with turpentine, and that’s when she saw it, that’s when she knew if she could drink it, it could kill her. That’s when she realised that she wanted to die.



 When she was nine, her sister played her some music and there was a piano part in it, for a few seconds at the end. It made her feel like she’d never be happy again, she saw black in her head, and felt pain in her heart. She thought it must be the saddest music in the world. She talked to her friends. She sang it for them, they didn’t understand, they didn’t think that music could make them that sad. She stopped talking. She knew then that she was different.



When she was eleven, she was reading one of her sister’s teen magazines. She loved reading the articles about growing up, and she was excited about becoming a teenager. She wanted to be different so badly. She read an article about a girl who was very depressed; she had tried taking pain-killers to end her life. It didn’t work for her, and the girl woke up, feeling very upset. She was interested, so she took the medicine from the cupboard; she climbed the shelves so she could reach the top one. She poured herself a glass of water, and made sure no-one else was around. She took eight tablets. She didn’t know what would happen. She didn’t know if she cared. She got a small stomach ache. It felt good. She felt powerful.  She felt in control.


She was thirteen, and she had started high school. She hated it, she hated the fake people, the stupid popular girls, and she knew that they had this secret to life she didn’t possess. One night, she was incredibly angry at her Dad, he had asked to do something, and she was tired, so tired, a tiredness that went straight down to her bones that she knew he didn’t understand. He told her to stop ‘absenting’ herself. She screamed at him, she felt that white hot rage inside her. She went to her bedroom, and found the scissors she bought for her sewing class, with the teacher who was so horrible to her. She didn’t even think as she brought it across her thigh. It felt so good. Her rage expressed in those few red lines. When she was twelve and she felt like this, she would rip down posters from the walls in her room until her mother and father cried at her to stop. This way was much better. It was all hers.



She was fourteen, and this time she took two packets of Panadol instead of one, like last year. She didn’t know if she was trying to kill herself or not. She didn’t care. The girl that she loved more than anything hated her, and she had no reason to care whether she lived or died. Her friend and the girl she was in love with found out about her cutting. She begged them not to tell her sister, she told them that she would give them money if they didn’t tell her. They agreed to take the money and kept the secret. She got the feeling that they didn’t really care.


She was fifteen, and her mother told her she had found the packets of tablets she had been stocking up for when she felt too bad to live. She yelled at her mother for invading her privacy, she cried and begged her not to take her to a counsellor. She was fine, she’d just felt a little down because of the divorce. Her mother agreed with her, and she ran to the toilets of the café they were in because she couldn’t breathe. Her mother didn’t see this, and when she came out, they exchanged smiles of understanding and hugged. Her mother didn’t know that she didn’t understand at all.



She was sixteen, and she stole her father’s sleeping tablets to feel something. She took a whole packet of ibuprofen, because she had heard it could make you high. She started smoking in her bedroom late at night, because the girl she loved had left her and this time she knew she definitely wanted to die. She took every type of pain-killer she could find, anything that could be lethal. There were packets and packets that she took, she cried goodbye into her pillow. He head felt awful, she felt woozy. She couldn’t even walk properly to the shower where she planned to slit her wrists in case the tablets failed her. She couldn’t hold the razor properly in her hand and it didn’t work. She fell back into her bed and when she woke up twelve hours later, she threw up. She threw up all day and night. Her father rang up her mother and asked her what to do. She said to take her to the hospital if it got worse. Her sister and her father brought in bowls for her to vomit in, and refilled her water bottle. She told them she must have caught a bug from one of her friends at school who had been sick with the same thing. None of her friends found out until much later. Her family still don’t know.



When she was seventeen, she had been forced to go to a counsellor. The girl she loved had moved schools. She made a big show of walking down to the train tracks, a path where she and the girl shehad loved had once kissed. She stepped closer and closer to the tracks, making sure to jump at the right moment. But when the train came, inches away from her face, blowing her hair around, she couldn’t do it. She cried and cried all the way to her best friend’s house, where her best friend played her a song she had written about a girl who wanted to die. She cried at the song and her best friend asked her why. She just said that it was beautiful. And it was.

Her grandmother died that same year and she swallowed a bottle of sleeping tablets, this time stolen from her brother. She fell asleep and it was night, she woke up and it was the next night. Her father asked her why she had slept so long. She told him she was just tired. He seemed very angry at her. She told her best friend about this attempt. In reply she told her that if they had never met the girl she was in love with, she wouldn’t be so fucked up. In her head, she silently disagreed.


She was eighteen, she started taking medication to help her depression and her parents knew a lot more than they used to. The girl she loved started talking to her again. But the girl she loved had a boyfriend who had abused her. She still wanted to die. She was taken out of school for a month and none of her friends came to visit her when she was stuck at home. Her friend told her that if she really wanted to die she would have done it already. She had to try and pass her last year at school but her teachers were mostly supportive. One of them told her that one of the girls in her class who had terrible asthma had already re-done the test, and she’d been away for just as long, so she should be able to do the test right away. She felt pathetic. She had no control over her life. The girl she loved was too busy fucking some new boy to realise that she was desperately suicidal. When she did tell her of her plans, the girl she loved rang up her mother. She never talked to her again.



After school had ended she took a trip for a week with her friends down to the beach to celebrate. For the first time in years, she wore short sleeves. Some of her friends had seen her arms before and weren’t surprised but others had to hide their faces of disgust. She noticed though. She found out one of her friends had been abused by her father. It made her hate herself because she realised that she had tried to tell her before, and she didn’t know at the time. She cut herself for the first time in four months, and her friend who had been abused took care of her stupid, pathetic scratches. She wished that one day she could be like her, strong and caring.




She was nineteen and she had had a horrible day. A friend, who she had feelings for had told her that she contacted her too much to her and made fun of the time she had been feeling bad, so she messaged the friend she had feelings for when she was in a lecture. Her other friends laughed. She wondered if they would laugh if they knew how bad she had been feeling. She ran to the toilets to cry, but they didn’t notice. This was almost exactly what the girl she was in love with once, used to tell her. She was failing university and she couldn’t make new friends because she was scared. She went to the last train station on the line, where her father lived. She went into the disgusting bathroom and tried to slit her wrists. The blood went everywhere. She had to lick it off her hands in desperation and it got all over her pants. But she couldn’t go deep enough. She was so nervous; she thought that when her dad and sister picked her up that they would notice the blood stains. They didn’t. She called her father pathetic because she was so mad. She told the girl she had feelings for that she had started cutting herself again and she was afraid her sister knew. The girl she had feelings for asked her why she didn’t just stop. She didn’t know the answer. Later in the year, for the first time in a long time she had a few days where she felt like she didn’t want to die. But then it got worse again.


When she was almost twenty she felt like she hadn’t lived at all. So she wrote a story about her life and realised it was because she was always trying to die. And she doesn’t think it will ever get better.  

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