#1 (memories)

The first time i felt heartbreak was when i was 17.

I couldn't accept it, it wrenched my whole being. I called him over and over again, or texted, or did whatever it was just to get his attention. I threatened to hurt myself. At one point, and I remember this distinctly, because I knew at that time that I would remember this for a long time. I played Galapogos out loud and lay on the floor. I took whatever pills i found in the fridge and downed it with some medicinal alcohol. I took a gulp of some washing liquid found in the bathroom, and threw it back out, bubbles in my throat. I used a blade and in a fit, cut my thighs over and over. I called him and ... i don't remember, maybe said what i did. He said something to the effect of, if you want to talk to me, talk to me... you don't have to do anything stupid to get my attention. Well i did at that time, because he wouldn't talk to me... wouldn't respond, wouldn't turn his head to look at me.

I couldn't turn off the voice in my head - the hungry demon who kept saying over and over, you're not wanted.. you're not wanted. What made me obsessed, i think now, was rejection. I wouldve done anything, did do... to get his attention. Now, and then, i think how incredibly stupid i was, and in some ways, still am. Because i still know that pain. how can i deny that, that gutwrenching, destroying pain? like being torn open from the inside out. and that same voice, saying, you're not wanted. you're not worth it.

That night, every fifteen minutes almost systematically i woke up and rushed to the bathroom to throw up. it was like something pulled out from deep, deep in my gut. it left a bitter bile in my mouth, and later i saw, some black stuff at the bottom of the toilet.

Earlier that night my parents found me, asleep or under the surmise of it. They asked me if i wanted something to eat on their way home. I sounded as normal as i can and said no. I made sure i was in bed by the time they got home. did they have any clue? I don't know. Till this day no one knows what happened that night. I couldn't eat anything the next morning. I drank something and threw it back up. Later on, i ate an apple, telling myself if i can keep this down, i'll be alright. i did. i was alright. I seem to remember watching the Oscars on TV. A few days later, i was surprised to discover red wounds, slashed on my thighs.

That was at seventeen. For how incredibly stupid and desperate that was, how can i erase it and say that wasn't me? It is a part of my history... and how i understand things.. the world, people. how i understand desperation and pain. how i feel for people. How i straddle the world of making sense and insanity. how i learn to keep calm and ... through all the years of coping, disowning some things and accepting others and myself with it, how i learn to regulate my own emotions and thoughts, how i learn the necessary sense of humour. and have a sense of proportion, and knowing the next closest thing is death. and learn to be thankful for what i do have.