Black Girl, Still Interrupted

This past Thanksgiving holiday was different from those before, for the first time since I was nineteen years-old I decided to break my silence about my mental illness and showed my mother the scars that only I knew existed. My left thigh is covered in over fifteen fresh  scars that are slowly begin to heal after being infected for two weeks. The tears that silently fell from her eyes as she covered her mouth in horror let me know that she didn’t believe me when I told her nearly five years ago that I suffer from Boderline Personality Disorder and clinical depression. For the first time in a long time she was faced with the reality that her eldest daughter suffers from a mental illness.

I was eighteen years-old the first time I ingested a prescription drug cocktail in an effort to end my life. It took four nurses to hold me down so they could insert a tube in my nose and down my throat because I refused to drink the charcoal that would ultimately save my life. I didn’t realize it then but that wasn’t going to be the last time I tried to end my life nor did I realize I was battling an early onset of a mental disorder. It was only one year later that I slid a rusty razor across my skin  for the first time. I was nineteen years old and a new mother to a baby boy; my intent in that instance was never to kill myself but  rather to find a release from the pain and frustrations of my daily life. The high that came from the opening the skin and watching the blood drip was what I would assume that first hit or heroin feels like. And it was on that day that I became what is known as a cutter.

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