This is not a fanfic anymore. That had to be taken down due to it's content. This story, was written by a 15 year old girl who wishes to remain anonymous. It is a very sad, but true story of a problem she has had the misfortune of knowing. I encourage you to read it. The purpose of it is to help others in her situation help to deal and maybe seek help. And the poem in it was written for none other than Justin Timberlake himself. You'll know what I'm talking about when you get to the part. Here it goes.
The War I Fought with Myself
The first time it happened was early last March. I had been extremely sad for several years already. I was used to the suicidal thoughts and tendencies that had often filled my mind, but this was different. I had never felt this before. The boy I was in love with didn't like me back anymore. He liked my friend. It was my first broken heart. I didn't know how to handle it. Looking back now, I can honestly say it wasn't that big of a deal. So what?! Some big, egotistical, pig-headed, highschool football player didn't want me anymore. Big deal. He's scum. I wish I could've said that then. Half of my problems wouldn't be here now. I am overly sensitive though and it felt as though my heart had been ripped out and shred to pieces. I freaked.
The razor blade looked so tempting. Like an icy, cold glass of water on a hot, humid, summer day. It was a panacea for my pain. If I couldn't pay him back, I would pay myself. I was out of control and couldn't be stopped. Kind of like a cocain adict taking one final snort. The sharp razor cut through the soft, pale skin on my arm like a knife through butter. Oddly enough, I couldn't feel a thing. My arm wasn't numb, there was just no pain. It probably should of had an effect on me. Something should of made me say "STOP!!!THIS ISN'T RIGHT!!!", but it didn't. I just sat there, watching the flow of the red river seeping through the gash in my arm. My heart didn't hurt anymore.It felt better. And no one, I thought, would ever know.
From then on, whenever something bad happened to me, or I just couldn't handle the stress in my life, I would lock myself in the bathroom with my razor, or my bedroom with my needles and scissors. I would slash myself untill I bled. It never once hurt. It was a liberation of the tears that were never shed, but withheld inside, torchering me with a sad pain, waiting to be released. And I never once deplored the fact that I was doing it.
Why I did this, I don't know. When I did it the first time, I had no intentions on doing it again. It was addicting. That may sound kind of weird but anyone who has ever done anything self damaging would know. You can't stop it. It would be like trying to reverse the flow of the Mississipi River. I continued to do this for three months. My friends were aware of my problem and didn't know what to do. I felt weighed down with guilt because I was stressing them out. They didn't know whether to tell someone or keep the trust and faith I had put in them.
Finally, my close friend turned me in. I called her one night crying because I had sliced deeper than before. I was gushing blood and scared to death. The cut healed as all do but the emotional scars last a life time. She turned me in at school the next day. The counsler was very nice and I know she tried to comfort me but it just didn't help. As she called my mother I couldn't help feel anything but scared. What would they think? Would I be grounded? Will my parents hate me? I was suddenly filled with shame and embarrassment.
I was put into theropy. My psychiatrist did not help me. She made me feel sadder and sadder. She would come up with ways to relieve stress that just didn't work. She once suggested writing poems or songs about how I felt and then putting them to music on my guitar. This, I thought, might work. It was music, my one true love. My only source of happiness. However, my attempts to write failed. Even mushy love poems I sat down to write turned into bitter, hatred pieces of misanthropic trash. Such as this poem here. I wrote it for a member of a musical group that I had a huge crush on. It was supposed to be a love poem.
You strut your stuff on to the stage
like the god you know you are
you're perfect in so many eyes
Mr. Manly Superstar
All the girls they faint and scream
in an attempt to get to you
but you can't let them have it boy
you tease them and you're through
You make me want you pretty boy
you make me want to cry
and even though you hurt me bad
I'll love you 'till I die
And one day soon you'll fade away
and the screaming will be far
and you'll be a thought in the back of my mind
the fallen superstar
I got out of theropy. I told her everything was okay. It wasn't. Regardless, they let me out. I spent most of the summer inside. I was burdened with a great depression that augmented everyday. I had stopped cutting myself for months. Instead I held all my problems inside letting them escolate to the point where I got severe stress headaches often. It was terrible.
Then in September, I started cutting again. It felt good in the beginning but then it would start to hurt. It never had hurt when I did it before. It was a strange feeling. what once was my haven from pain now was actually causing me much distress. I decided I needed help again.
This time around, I turned myself in. I told all. How it started, how I had "help" that never really helped me and how I started again. They called my parents again. This time would be different then the last. This time I would allow myself to be helped. I had been depressed and would now hopefully be cured. For the first time in a long time I would feel relieved and happy. And as the tears flowed from my eyes when my mother was told, I cracked a smiled. The secret was out once again and it felt damn good. It would no longer be forced inside.
I now wear my scars like battle wounds. I will see them even when they fade away, if they ever do. They will forever be a reminder of the war I fought with myself.