It was difficult to control my emotions; each day, overwhelming sadness cast a shadow of gloom over me. I pretended to be alright so that no one would detect any problems. Having to resort to secrecy, the storing away of pain and past hurts proved to be dangerous. I was in a place of torment. The thoughts of my being worthless and inadequate echoed consistently. I sat in my despair and pondered how I was never really successful in life. It was true that I had failed many milestones and matriculation. A simple exam taken in Kindergarten placed me at a school that was ”suited for me”. Doing poorly in the major exam in Primary School landed me at a less than satisfactory High School. Attaining less than average and barely passing grades for most of my high school years was nothing short of embarrassing. And at the end of my secondary education, I had sat yet another major exam in which I failed. I saw many students from my class whose parents were filled with pride as they boasted about their brilliant son or daughter. Knowing that my grades were unsatisfactory, I hurriedly made my way home with the envelope still sealed. It was my way of escaping public shame. After reviewing my results, my family gave me two options. Either repeat the last grade of high school or attend Community College. There was no way that I’d relive the shame of high school, so I opted for the latter. I attended a community college, did my courses, but again failed 😐 miserably😔. It seemed like everything I tried would not work.

I sought a different route and chose a career, did an interview, and surprisingly was accepted into a program. I thought to myself, wow, things are looking up for me. Oh, how wrong I was! By my first year into my tertiary education, I quickly realized I hated the career I chose but even worse, it was too late for me to quit. My parents, both hard-working, had spent too much money to get me this far, working two and three jobs. If I had quit my program I would have wasted my parents’ time, effort and hard-earned money. I had no choice but to complete what I regrettably had started. My life was in shambles, verbal abuse was never-ending, depression still a major factor and now I had to remain stagnant in a career I really wanted nothing to do with. To make a long tertiary education story short, I failed AGAIN😒. Why couldn’t anything go right? I was disappointed, confused and ashamed. I let everyone down again. Wanting so desperately to change my stroke of bad luck I swallowed my pride, attended after school classes and summer programs, studied as hard and as long as I could, prayed, well more like begged God, please let me be successful. I took the exam a second time and asked God to let me know ahead of time if I had passed. On April 6, 2014, I had a dream; I saw myself going with a friend to collect my results. On arrival, I was given a paper that I read, however, this paper indicated a failing grade. Alarmed, I looked at the name on the paper and noticed that it was not for me. Relieved, I went to another building and sat on the outside. A man went to fetch my results, but rather than returning with a paper he returned with a broad smile and a small cushion that had the word Congratulations sewn on the front of it. I thought it a bit comical but was ecstatic nonetheless. But after all the failures in my life, I wanted sound confirmation that I had indeed passed my final exam. The man then placed a laminated card in my hand. I was hopeful as I read the laminated card. I saw my name written quite nicely in black ink atop the small card. I smiled, finally, some good news. I now have my license to practice. Thank you Jesus!

This joy, however, like a sequel to a bad TV show series, was short-lived. I was jobless for almost a year. Though I had a Bachelor’s degree, the only job I could get was packing bags and boxes that paid barely enough to buy a good meal. Devastated and tired, I was fast approaching my wit’s end. I couldn’t choose death because of the promise I had made to God (If you haven’t, please read my first post). I was sinking with no help. I needed to find a way to rid the stress. I came across an article about a particular celebrity who experimented with self-harming. Reading her story sparked a strange curiosity in me. I wanted to find out more about it; which act to choose, how to do it etc. How bad could it be, right?

The Blade

Let me attempt to explain why I resorted to harming. I needed to add more pain to what I was feeling, simply because I believed I deserved it. I needed to hurt as badly as I was feeling. To those who have never experienced depression, the aforementioned sounds dumb as heck. Be grateful that your thought process is not as warped as mine was.

I took a blade from my place of employment, tucked it in my pocket and headed home; off to commit my dirty deed. On my first attempt, I didn’t even break the skin, I was too afraid. Why the hell didn’t anyone mention this shiz was so painful! I mustered up all my courage and tried again and almost cried. Punk! I exclaimed. I hid the blade in a container on my dresser but not long after, my depressed state arose and anger with it. I used all that anger and rage, the sadness, and focused that energy on making my 1st cut. But one cut led to another and then another and another. To see my first drop of blood felt like a major accomplishment. Yes, I drew blood. My focus was no longer the pain of each slit but the amount of blood that resulted from my cutting. I was hooked. As unfathomable as it may sound, I was happy, smiling from ear to ear as I looked at my arms, the marks that made me so proud and the blood that gave me some joy. Pseudo, but it was good enough for me.

Cuts had to be made on the inner aspects of my arm so that I was able to hide the scars when in public, especially at work. Wouldn’t say I was necessarily ashamed of them, just a bit apprehensive about reactions and comments I would’ve received. Like the ever popular “You must be crazy”. So I kept the cutting to myself. Over time the ‘joy’ of cutting faded and I needed a new outlet. I indulged myself in sexual relationships, not for personal gratification but simply because they (men) asked. Involved with five men, all seven to twenty-something years my senior. I ….

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