06/09/2009

It’s sad that I could only find two of my poems from my time as a Goth. I was really looking forward to finding more. Though I must say that the poems I did find were some serious stuff. “At the Rope’s End” was one that I wrote right before I tried ending my life by squeezing the living daylight out of me using a towel.

Yup. A towel! I couldn’t find a rope. I almost thought I could do it too. End my life right then and there at that very delicate moment. I was so tired of all the ridicule I was facing in life, both in school and at home. As I squeezed the towel tighter and tighter around my neck and felt my breath squeeze away, it did feel somewhat good for a while.

I remember even now how tears of joy were flowing out of my eyes as my vision grew blurry. Before I knew it, I had lost my strength and was lying on the bathroom floor gasping for breath. I’ll tell the whole world if I can that I’d never felt as alive as I did in that moment I was gasping for air. Of course I later hated myself for being weak and not being able to go through it completely but I guess it was all for the better.

Anyway, moving on, “The Crimson Lead” is actually my personal favorite. It has a simplicity that just calls to everyone. It’s pretty depressing too. I remember why I wrote this as well. Because I was so sick of being alive. I just wanted to end it all. I felt so bad for my poor foster parents having to deal with my stupid antics day in and day night.

Reading the poem now depresses me again. If only I knew the true power of this poem, I’d have never written it in the first place. It might be a good thing that no one else will ever read this diary but me. Who knows what someone might do if they read all the stuff I write in here? I’m already tired of taking responsibility for my own actions to take responsibility for the actions of a random stranger.

Back to the time when I actually wrote the poem, I don’t know why but I actually wanted to write it in blood. And that’s what I did. Like I mentioned before, I took some toilet paper and a blade. A deep slit into my left arm gave me enough ink to practice my calligraphy on that thin soft paper. All it took was a pencil dipped inside and later all I had to do was just write away. Not one to brag but the crimson of my blood did look spectacularly amazing.

And so, there I was bleeding out in the restroom. It’s rather amusing to note that most of my suicide attempts were made inside the restroom. I wonder if it was some kind of a poetic influence pushing me on to rather wash away my sins or myself. Or maybe it was just the fear of being discovered by my parents and forced into another painful session with a dozen other psychologists and psychiatrists.

Yeah, all those suicide attempts were in a way before I met the poor chap who advised me to write a diary. I guess his name was Paul but I just felt sorry for him for being stuck with me. Turns out, he was a pretty famous shrink. Not that he could get anything out of me really. But then again, I guess he did help me out in a way. He pointed out that I did have a place where I could be myself. Right here.

So yeah, going back down memory lane, I was sitting there on the toilet seat, bleeding myself out and enjoying the pain when all of sudden my Mom shouts for me. Yeah, I was in the toilet for like an hour. Kind of usual routine but then again, I did need to get out. At first I thought I’d just let it bleed out but saner heads prevailed.

I got out once I considered the situation where my folks would be devastated after finding their only adopted child lying dead on the bathroom floor. I did write “The Crimson Lead” in order to portray my agony of living on for my folks. There was no point giving my folks any more agony by trying to escape from the pain only I should bear.

So I did what any child loving his or her parents would do. I wrapped up the open wound with some toilet paper and got out. It didn’t take me long to get away from the eyes of my mother, which was a good thing because I was sure the anemia due to blood loss would kick in soon. And well, it did too.

I could feel myself blacking out. Though I didn’t lose much blood but the effects were there nevertheless. Thank God I was a nerdy kid. I knew just what to do too. Eating sugary stuff and trying to stop the bleeding as soon as possible. Well… More like before anyone at home found out. I was so glad I lived in a family where they gave me personal space.

So I treated the wound I inflicted on myself to the best of my abilities. Blade cuts aren’t really very big so I was fine more or less. It was deep and I did cut through my vein but all I had to do was put pressure and a sterile dressing. And well, keep the arm above heart level. I wonder if it would’ve been the same if I had cut my artery. I hear blood just gushes out.

So I replenished my lost energy in the form of glucose from all the sugary stuff I could get my hands upon and kept adding dressings over the already soaked ones till the blood stopped flowing. The rest just involved changing the dressing and camouflaging it from Mom and Dad. Not really a hard task considering they’re usually so busy with their own stuff to look at me from head to toe, checking for minor changes.

All it took was a good dressing, a shirt with long sleeves, and a jacket on top. Kudos to winter, the only season I love. It’s all dry and cold, the way I am inside. So I strolled out of my room at night after the whole ordeal throughout the day and I could say this with pride that, I did a good job. My folks never suspected a thing!

So yeah, that was my life as a Goth. Inflicting pain on myself and feeling good about it. I might’ve even gone for piercings and the works if my parents weren’t true Catholics. Trust me, no one wants to walk into a church looking like a Goth or God save them, they’re going to die from the sermons they’ll be getting from both the parents and the pastors.

Guess I’m done discussing my Goth life. It was fun while it lasted alright. When I look back, it did teach me a thing or two. It was rather fun to dress up and stuff. And of course I also enjoyed the pain I inflicted on myself. It was rather addicting. I’ve stopped now but there isn’t a day when I want to feel the rush of feeling pain again. Yup, I’m definitely suicidal.