It's Not Self-Pity [ Reader Discretion Advised ]
Call of the Wild :: Extras :: Stories
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It's Not Self-Pity [ Reader Discretion Advised ]
by Guest Mon Dec 19, 2011 6:12 pm
It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. It wasn’t the glorious reunion she’d always dreamed and yearned for. It wasn’t even a thing that brought a smile to her face or pleasure to her soul. Instead, it was a foul, loathsome feeling that made her wonder about plenty of things she’d never bothered about wondering before.
She wondered about the reason of life, the reason of love, the reason of friendship and laughter, but there was one thing that stood out from all the rest: why listen to others when you can follow in your own footsteps?
“Don’t cut,” and “don’t commit suicide,” and “I really care for you,” were all things she was thoroughly accustomed to now, and they meant nothing. They were simply a hollow shell of things that mattered not; things that would never again trouble her conscience, or make her wary of her actions.
She didn’t doubt, however, the love and concern of her friends and family—mostly her friends—but she no longer took into account what they told her. Maybe it was because life, hardship, pain, and tears were eroding her personality, and she was slowly fading into nothing more than a shadow. Nothing of any significance, to herself or to the rest of the world. Maybe, she thought, that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe she was destined to fade from the world, hide herself in seclusion.
That way, she had no responsibilities to uphold or friendships to keep. All she had to do was wallow in her own pain that was both mental and physical. Perhaps, she thought, cutting wasn’t the way to relieve her stress, but by God it worked. Scars that lined up and down her arms and legs only reminded her of the life she was living; the life she didn’t want to be living. The life that had stolen so much out of here she was barely worth a second glance.
There were so many “maybe’s” in her world that she came to doubt whether her own thoughts were worth the consideration or if they were simply figments of her imagination, planted seeds in her brain that were actually nonexistent—as nonexistent as she herself was? Of course she never wanted self-pity. Indeed, she knew the troubles and hardships of others. They were often more intimate and harmful than her own. Yet what happens when one person cannot control their anger, their pain, and their sadness, and only end up hurting themselves?
There was no uncertainty that the cool touch of a razor or grinding edge of a jagged piece of glass was painful. No, indeed, it could cause much pain. But what it did afterwards was worth it. The pain and stress were relieved, if only for the time being. The want to cry and exclude herself from the world diminished into nothing but the scar on her arm, or the wound on her leg. All that she needed now was her hand and a blade.
Maybe she was taking it too far; of course that was extremely likely. But even though she may come across as asking for sympathy, empathy, or anything that would boost her self-confidence, she did not. It was simply the feeling of longing for death, for the darkness, and for the absence of having to endure the hardships that were certainly not worth all the trouble and pain, that drove her. It was simply the feeling of loss, and the feeling she was already lost into a black void of nothingness. Possibly she was already gone; her existence was questionable. Was the breath she breathed only the wind, or the flutter of her heart simply the beat of a butterfly’s wings?
Well, conceivably, this was true. According to her closest friends, she was overreacting. But that only made her angry.
Angry beyond comparison. Angry to the point it could very likely be called bloodlust. It could be called many other things, as well, but the main reason for her anger was that they didn’t understand.
“Oh, you’re overreacting.”
“It’s not worth crying about.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourselves, we have our problems, too.”
“It’s not a big deal. It’ll pass.”
Oh, really? This only made her want to cry, to punch something, to cut. She only wished that they would understand their lives were much easier than hers. When you are abused by your parents, more mentally than physically, it’s hard to live with yourself. When your parents tell you that you aren’t good enough, or that they wished you were never born, or that they regretted the decision to even conceive a child of their own, it mentally damages you, and you begin to wonder: “What if they’re right?”
Perhaps some of them were going through that, but most of her friends she knew weren’t. And their words only crushed her even further down into the wedge she’d already deeply embedded herself in. But for those who did understand…
Well, she couldn’t talk to them, either. She felt selfish and undeniably self-pitying. She needn’t be placing her problems on another person, no matter how serious they were. Suicidal thoughts and cutting may not be anything compared to what they were going—she’d never know.
The thing that scared her the most, conversely, was the fact that suicide didn’t bother her anymore. In fact, she welcomed the idea with an open mind and heart. There were many ways to die, and she’d considered every last one of them: painful and long, painless and short. It was as easy as pulling a trigger, or as hard as letting blood flow from your wrist in a locked room with “Adam’s Song” by Blink 182. Of course, she wasn’t bothered by it. She actually preferred the cutting option, seeing as she’d cut for about a year in full now.
To herself, nothing was worth it anymore. Nothing; not even the people she loved. She never wanted to die and leave her beloved boyfriend behind. In fact, she told him she’d hold on and be strong for him, but now that her problems confronted her to her face, she was more than willing to break that oath with him, if it meant ending the eternal pain.
And maybe that was the solution: infinite darkness. Infinite quiet. Infinite painlessness.
Maybe that was the key to release.
Maybe death was better than people realized.
She wondered about the reason of life, the reason of love, the reason of friendship and laughter, but there was one thing that stood out from all the rest: why listen to others when you can follow in your own footsteps?
“Don’t cut,” and “don’t commit suicide,” and “I really care for you,” were all things she was thoroughly accustomed to now, and they meant nothing. They were simply a hollow shell of things that mattered not; things that would never again trouble her conscience, or make her wary of her actions.
She didn’t doubt, however, the love and concern of her friends and family—mostly her friends—but she no longer took into account what they told her. Maybe it was because life, hardship, pain, and tears were eroding her personality, and she was slowly fading into nothing more than a shadow. Nothing of any significance, to herself or to the rest of the world. Maybe, she thought, that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe she was destined to fade from the world, hide herself in seclusion.
That way, she had no responsibilities to uphold or friendships to keep. All she had to do was wallow in her own pain that was both mental and physical. Perhaps, she thought, cutting wasn’t the way to relieve her stress, but by God it worked. Scars that lined up and down her arms and legs only reminded her of the life she was living; the life she didn’t want to be living. The life that had stolen so much out of here she was barely worth a second glance.
There were so many “maybe’s” in her world that she came to doubt whether her own thoughts were worth the consideration or if they were simply figments of her imagination, planted seeds in her brain that were actually nonexistent—as nonexistent as she herself was? Of course she never wanted self-pity. Indeed, she knew the troubles and hardships of others. They were often more intimate and harmful than her own. Yet what happens when one person cannot control their anger, their pain, and their sadness, and only end up hurting themselves?
There was no uncertainty that the cool touch of a razor or grinding edge of a jagged piece of glass was painful. No, indeed, it could cause much pain. But what it did afterwards was worth it. The pain and stress were relieved, if only for the time being. The want to cry and exclude herself from the world diminished into nothing but the scar on her arm, or the wound on her leg. All that she needed now was her hand and a blade.
Maybe she was taking it too far; of course that was extremely likely. But even though she may come across as asking for sympathy, empathy, or anything that would boost her self-confidence, she did not. It was simply the feeling of longing for death, for the darkness, and for the absence of having to endure the hardships that were certainly not worth all the trouble and pain, that drove her. It was simply the feeling of loss, and the feeling she was already lost into a black void of nothingness. Possibly she was already gone; her existence was questionable. Was the breath she breathed only the wind, or the flutter of her heart simply the beat of a butterfly’s wings?
Well, conceivably, this was true. According to her closest friends, she was overreacting. But that only made her angry.
Angry beyond comparison. Angry to the point it could very likely be called bloodlust. It could be called many other things, as well, but the main reason for her anger was that they didn’t understand.
“Oh, you’re overreacting.”
“It’s not worth crying about.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourselves, we have our problems, too.”
“It’s not a big deal. It’ll pass.”
Oh, really? This only made her want to cry, to punch something, to cut. She only wished that they would understand their lives were much easier than hers. When you are abused by your parents, more mentally than physically, it’s hard to live with yourself. When your parents tell you that you aren’t good enough, or that they wished you were never born, or that they regretted the decision to even conceive a child of their own, it mentally damages you, and you begin to wonder: “What if they’re right?”
Perhaps some of them were going through that, but most of her friends she knew weren’t. And their words only crushed her even further down into the wedge she’d already deeply embedded herself in. But for those who did understand…
Well, she couldn’t talk to them, either. She felt selfish and undeniably self-pitying. She needn’t be placing her problems on another person, no matter how serious they were. Suicidal thoughts and cutting may not be anything compared to what they were going—she’d never know.
The thing that scared her the most, conversely, was the fact that suicide didn’t bother her anymore. In fact, she welcomed the idea with an open mind and heart. There were many ways to die, and she’d considered every last one of them: painful and long, painless and short. It was as easy as pulling a trigger, or as hard as letting blood flow from your wrist in a locked room with “Adam’s Song” by Blink 182. Of course, she wasn’t bothered by it. She actually preferred the cutting option, seeing as she’d cut for about a year in full now.
To herself, nothing was worth it anymore. Nothing; not even the people she loved. She never wanted to die and leave her beloved boyfriend behind. In fact, she told him she’d hold on and be strong for him, but now that her problems confronted her to her face, she was more than willing to break that oath with him, if it meant ending the eternal pain.
And maybe that was the solution: infinite darkness. Infinite quiet. Infinite painlessness.
Maybe that was the key to release.
Maybe death was better than people realized.
Guest- Guest
Re: It's Not Self-Pity [ Reader Discretion Advised ]
by Guest Mon Dec 19, 2011 7:32 pm
thats sad... did u write it yourself?
Guest- Guest
Re: It's Not Self-Pity [ Reader Discretion Advised ]
by JayzPF Mon Dec 19, 2011 7:38 pm
This is amazing! If you right a book, I bet it will be published.
JayzPF- Star Player
- Posts : 642
Join date : 2011-09-22
Age : 23
Location : In your fishbowl. ;D
Re: It's Not Self-Pity [ Reader Discretion Advised ]
by Guest Mon Dec 19, 2011 8:14 pm
Patriot ~ Yes, I wrote it myself.
Jayz ~ Thanks. Maybe I'll consider it. (:
Jayz ~ Thanks. Maybe I'll consider it. (:
Guest- Guest
Call of the Wild :: Extras :: Stories
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