The Skin I Live In (TW: Self Harm)
I had wanted to die.
To completely give up life as it is and start over. Maybe as a reincarnation of the person I wanted to be. I tried killing myself multiple times..mostly in my head though because I was only a child. In fact, It started in fifth grade. The time between getting over childhood and beginning puberty. I began to grow differently inside of my own skin. Meaning, boys began to look less like cootie monsters and more like the person I wish to keep as prisoner. As a female, there are standards that I have to uphold in society such as graduate smart and marry the man of my dreams and have cute little mixed babies. And as an African American female, the stereotypes begin to get longer and longer as time passes. But back to my point...I discovered in fifth grade that despite the female that graced the outside, I was a male on the inside. The type of male who longed for another man's embrace and love. A gay one. I learned that it was called transgender and for years I played around with this identity online by making new friends and beginning relationships all at the age of 10. When I hit sixth grade I began to hurt. I felt homophobia everywhere that I went. Not only was I already an outcast at school, now I was afraid to be myself because I knew I would be bullied or hurt, so I began cutting myself. Scissors, knives, pens, lead, and even purposeful paper cuts helped me release the pent up anger and pressure that I was feeling. I was depressed. I diagnosed myself early and the cutting only grew worse as I reached high school. My situation with wanting to be a man slowly began disappearing and my attention to females hit me like a wreck. I began to fantasize about girls and wanting their attention. I would rather date a guy but I felt a female was the only one who could give me what I wanted sexually. Sophomore year came and I couldn’t bear it. It all became too much. The drama, the stigma that I had gained from being at the top of the academic pyramid..the pressure..God the pressure is what made it hurt the most. I was hospitalized at 15 years old and diagnosed with depression and anxiety disorder in a Texas behavioral center. They also believed I had a very mild case of Borderline Personality Disorder, but they never spoke of it or told my mother..the woman who became the source of my depression. The cut that landed me in the hospital is still on my wrist today. Deep. All of them were. Extremely deep. Another failed suicide attempt and all I had to show for it was six deep cuts. Every now and then I glance at these cuts and wonder why I ever stopped cutting in the first place. I'm a senior now and haven't cut since I was 15 years old two years ago. I want to cut. God knows I wish I could but the promise I made to myself is stronger than my need to feel the cool metal against my skin. I am better than my blades. Better than what I believed myself to be and I can live through this. I still struggle with who I am and my sexual orientation. I still wish to be a boy but I’ve learned to accept who I was born as and live life as I can. My story is not inspiring. My story is to show that you are, indeed, not alone. I felt like I was for years and now I can finally relate to others. I wrote this very brief and not very detailed story because I needed to get it off my chest. I’ve held it in for seven years and I be damned if this follows me into adult hood. Thank you for listening.
I finally feel somewhat free.
