Suicide Attempt Two, The Build Up
Proceeding from where I left off, I found a new friend: The Serrated Knife. I didn’t know what excitement, love, or joy was until I went on a date with my serrated knife. To be technical, it’s half serrated and half straight-blade. My third uncle had worked at a fencing company and they would give employee’s free or discounted pocket knives and I’ve been wanting to carry a knife for sometime and so he gave one to me and my sister as a gift. The blade and handle combined brought it to about 5 inches (maybe up to 7) and the blade only about 2 1/2 inches long. I’d have to have one of the knives on me physically to remember it’s exact length because I don’t have a physical one as of now, but the tip was VERY sharp for being such a small knife. I remember the first time I cut myself. At first it was only scratches because of the serrated blade but I decided one day to say fuck it and swiped the half-blade quickly against my right extensor carpi radialus longus muscle (could’ve been my left one, a bit fishy with the memory there) and……it was nice (sinister smile). There was a quick two seconds of freaking out but after the initial shock of seeing the wound bleed, I felt that rush that some people talk about. It was one of the most releasing experiences and in a subtle way I had become happy that I accomplished it and actually went through with it. I didn’t commit to too many things around that time but I finally did and that was pretty nice.
Seeing the physical wound hit a certain string within me. The expression of anguish made manifest physically like transmuting pain into cash. The ease of having a knife on me all the time, like walking with a magic wand to defeat any enemies you come across. The best friend that understands your struggle but comes with a solution. The knife made my life easier but made it more secure for me to have my hidden expression and coping mechanism all to myself. Luckily, my skins a bit darker so when the cuts healed it made it easier to conceal along with having more body hair then other people. Most people miss it and it’s hard to see any wounds but I did have one visible one for quite a while. I remember that one that time was pretty bad. I’m gonna fast-forward here then go backwards. I remember I was in my room one time and I was very familiar with cutting, where to cut, when to cut, how to hide it, and what I liked about it. One day I got a little too frisky and a bit too close to some veins or arteries and there were some more deeper ones than others I’ve done so I was really close dying that day. To get back on track, I’m going back to when I first started cutting. Most people use straight-blades like razor blades or a kitchen knife to cut themselves but I used a more serrated dominant blade, which isn’t as common but I’m sure someone out there had been doing it a long time before I had.
The peculiar feeling of having teeth tear my skin then a straight blade to give a deeper incision to the wound gave me a similar feeling to having salt, pepper, and lime. It’s zesty! It’s Spicy! IT’S SOUR! It’s the lack of love in the world coming through a blade and fornicating with my skin, growing a more intimate bond with my trauma, and having a connection with my spirit. Self-harm became the new communication form via pocketknife, so I was set. I didn’t do it all in one night but with each day grew an extra cut or two. My mental and emotional (or internal as I define it as) state at this point was the worst it had ever been in my life and it was like a brewing ulcer. Silent but there when triggered and hard to get rid of quickly. During this time in the late summer and fall season I had this sudden “drop” that hit my mind about the things I had done to others and the things that have happened to me. It’s hard to describe exactly what this feeling/experience was like but I put it best as if there was ever such a thing as God’s Judgement then this would be it. A lot of people in life have the misconception or notion that they’ll put off anything they’ve done or what’s happened in their life that’s impactful and deal with it once their in the grave. I wouldn’t even say they wait to do it because they become victim to waiting on God to give them a late payment of pain or bliss, this is how people forfeit their own strength and direction in life and leave it up to circumstances and situations to lead them to their desired outcome, forever aimless and loss, even unto death.
I felt God’s Judgement in a real way pouring in like a heavy river ready to deliver a flood to my spirit, mind, body, and soul. The dominant experience that came first was the shame in the sexual abuse that occurred with me and my cousins. It’s like when the judgement came I started to see my own fault in everything and wanted to take myself out the game for it. I saw how hurt I was in middle school and all the events up until that point in reflection like the sexual abuse with my cousins. Sexual abuse and incest (they can be interchanged sometimes because what we call a child getting molested by their father can still be considered incest, they didn’t care about consent back then either (for definitions sake)) are really big shadows in my family bloodline and it’s probably the biggest generational curse that we have. There’s other ones too but they’re more consciously visible like the men on my side of the family cheating both on my mother and fathers side (with my father himself doing it) or alcoholism or drug use. My grandmothers was raped when she was six years old, I believe her sister and mother was, two of my aunts have been, and a couple of cousins of mine. There’s a lot more to list but it’s hard to know their exact placement to me in terms of a cousin or uncle or whatever (like one girl was being molested by her father on my mothers dads side) but the roots are there. I bring this up because these kinds of things aren’t actually discussed about a lot but whether we want to consciously think about it or not, it exists.
It’s exactly like truth. You might feel a certain way, have a belief about something, or formulate an opinion but the truth stands firm without the need for validation, approval, acceptance, or much explanation unless inquired. Truth hurts in a unique way and it’s the last thing any of us wants to hear, think about, discuss, or work through (including me, I’m not perfect in any way at all) but this ugly truth is what brought me to my knees and I slowly started moving closer and closer to death. It was a lot easier back then (and now to a certain degree) to see the negative parts about me a lot easier and sooner then any positive aspects. It was impossible for me to see any good aspect about me because I had only seen bad. I remember around late 2014 into 2016 when my grandmother started slowly dying due to pancreatic cancer and it had a big toll on the family. My mother changed to an at-home nurse and at the time my third uncle (one of her brothers) started to do drugs and go down that path. I remember that even though my mother was home a bit more (and sometimes went to work), most the attention and focus went to our grandma. I mean to certain degree we all kept watch of her or at the very least would check in with her and see if she would need anything or not. Further into the chaos, my father had been in and out of jail more frequently and had one big run in with the law that lead to a high speed chase through the Bay Area. He got the recognition he wanted and the lifestyle he wanted, but bought at a price.
Because of his habit of going in and out of jail, the times he was incarcerated his mother (my other grandma) wanted to still keep up a line of communication open or to foster a relationship between us (me and my sister) but because it was an unnatural form of bonding, it didn’t last. I say unnatural because to force someone to be together whether it’s a romantic, parental, friendship, or other form of relationship doesn’t last well. As time went on there would be a little back and forth with my third uncle and his heroine addiction coming back into the house in and out like a gnawing ulcer pain. I felt like at the time that the house was a living jail cell. In a way, I was in prison and trapped there in a way because of the external and internal pain going on. It didn’t help my low self-esteem but I remember in Christianity my favorite book of The Bible was Revelation. Revelation is a heavily apocalyptic book and I got fixated on hell. Hell as a place, the torture, torment, punishments, ways out, and what would happen ultimately in the end when everything in the physical universe disappears. If you’re not careful you could fall down a rabbit hole of existential crisis where you’re not sure what happens when Gods final moment for time ends. Imagine having no sort of afterlife and just a blank experience with no consciousness or self-thought at all. On top of these side studies I would watch testimonies of peoples experience a taste of the afterlife. Most the testimonies were of hell and I’ve heard quite a few stories there ranging from people seeing Bush, Obama, Martin Luther King, and other famous or influential people resting there. I wasn’t there, I don’t know what hell is like, I can’t say the exact details a retched afterlife but what I can say is that a lot of the videos involved this journey and then a ritual back from the afterlife and back to reality.
These adventures would happen because in the end God would give them the foresight to go on and preach and tell their story. A lot of these were stories from Ex-Pastors or other individuals from African Countries and some other countries but I remember this one YouTube channel in particular that I got glued to. It didn’t help at all that it happened at night and I would be up at night questioning everything and that the last message I would hear before bed was of someone burning in a furnace or having encounters with Satan or other devils and demons. These would trigger a chain of other triggers and cause panic attacks around not knowing where I’d go. I wasn’t sure where I stood in Gods eye or where I would fall in his mercy, love, or judgement. I felt like I was in spiritual court and prison in a way, so there’s a lot of trails going on and I’m inching closer and closer to a breaking point. I would hold myself close and tight under my blanket in my hoodie, sweats, and earbuds in bed before I fell asleep or daydreamed myself to sleep. Comforting myself in the moonlight was decay coddling me to a peaceful somber. Nights were typically the only time I had to myself meaning everyone would be asleep or “dead” in a way, which was nice for me to reflect, write, or sulk in my own pain. The freaks come out at night and the demons (mental illnesses) could run free and where I could continue on my bad habits. The cloak of night was the perfect protection similar to how Batman operates. The only thing we had in common at that point in time was fear and how prevalent it was in those moments. Fear of hell, punishment, verbal assaults, and possibly more sexual assaults down the road.
The levels of low self-esteem and brokenness wasn’t made present until recently 6–7 years later but I was a sexual predators perfect victim, the kind of child a sexual groomer would dream of, and a top pick as this was around the time I started connecting with a sexual predator through a discord server via a YouTube video. Environments were cultivating right for a horror show and everything was perfect for me to fall more and more down into Hell. Hell was real, demons are real, and we’re the ones that perpetuate it. Obviously, life wasn’t getting any better and that’s when more and more fantasies about suicide and really any form of violence was there. It didn’t help my cause (or a lot of others either) but one of the negatives of technology and social media as a tool is that (if you look hard enough for it) you’ll find videos, images, live-streams, playlists, and more on murders, tortures, suicides, bombings, rapes, attempted rapes, mass shootings, kidnappings and attempted ones, and destruction. Destruction televised, shared, liked, and linked up for your enjoyment, desensitization, and indulgences on your weaknesses and natural human curiosity for understanding. Curiosity killed the cat and if you don’t know how to apply it or use it then you could end up dead too. I remember the first thing I saw was a lady walking her baby and a car came in with SPEED and FORCE out of nowhere like an uppercut from a heavyweight boxer and I was traumatized from sight since I haven’t seen anything that brutal before (at that time until two girls were hit by a truck in front of a bus stop at school). Usually most people don’t want anything to do with something that traumatized them that badly. You see it in some people, like take a female who’s been sexually abused at church or in her religion. She might get guarded, become a lesbian, become “alternative”, disregard anything to do with religion, never go to church again, and might not date a guy and if she does he might be a bit more less “threatening” in some regards compared to other men.
What I mean by this is that being with or dating anyone that doesn’t represent any aspect of their abusers or the environment in which the abuse occurred. I mentioned it earlier but we all have unique traumas and even if two people share an experience of being sexually abused, their abuse in and of itself are very different experiences. It can be a bit more subtle with women than men (but not too vastly different in terms of trauma triggers) but it could be how a guy walks, talks, little mannerisms and body language, a scent, an outfit, skin color, hair color, height, size, etc. Could be choice of food, how he looks, mindset, even things I can’t mention because I simply don’t know, we all have unique triggers. For me, ever since I saw that video I had went on to continue watching more and more of the similar content. The website isn’t up anymore but at the time Best Gore was pretty popular mainly for seeing suicides and cartel executions but included other things like car accidents and the like. If it was still up and running I wouldn’t recommend going there but I was determined to know what it would be like to die. Imagination was one thing and fantasy is powerful but there comes a point where you can’t live in illusions anymore and you need a taste or try of the real thing. Watching these videos provided me with an insight on what it would be like after falling off a building, hanging myself, jumping in front of a train, or any other sort of desired way to die or leave this world. I remember this one video in particular (in Japan or China I believe) and I forgot how many stories high this guy jumped (could’ve been up to 60 but I’m gonna guess around 40 stories but it was a ridiculously high story) but he jumped off of the top story or whatever story he was on (apartment building I believe but could’ve been another one) and when he was falling down a woman was crossing the street with her friend while walking her baby.
They kept walking along as they normally would not assuming much but then he came falling down EXACTLY on top of the child and both ended up dying (baby might’ve survived but doubt it considering the size difference). Hearing the thud like a wrestler hitting the mat, the fear and shock in the mothers voice and body language like seeing a predator in the wild, hearing the cries of anger, fear, and anguish over her child’s death never left my mind. It was perfect timing in the worst way possible, but also showed me some of the unnoticed consequences of what could happen. I never wanted to shoot myself much when I thought about dying. At most I remember feeling the air pressure from an airgun push pressure against my head but when I tried it I didn’t like it and wasn’t a fan of it. At the time I made a mental note and decided which ways I would want to take myself out: jumping off a tall building or high point, crashing my car or jumping in front of a car, slitting my wrists or my throat, and or mutilating myself (incision point at the lower sternum, pushing the blade further in, pulling the blade down or pulling it back and forth like getting Thanksgiving Turkey ready, crying torment as I feel my small and large intestines spill out and blood pour around me and comfort me as I slowly fade out of consciousness and into numbness and pain then finally, the blade reaches the top of the pelvis and now I’m but of a memory in the fabric of time). I didn’t take the lists too seriously because I didn’t think I could be someone who could go through with an actual attempt.
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A lot of people talk about killing themselves, make jokes about it, and use it as a statement when life gets tough but I wondered what REALLY doing it would be like? What’s the game-plan? Methods, steps, and not just physically but even after death, what would my direction be? Which way will I go? Do I have control? Am I going to Hell or Heaven? If I do go, for how long? Are there rooms and apartments in Heaven or Hell? Ultimately, what I was unconsciously trying to grasp was my purpose, direction, and focus over my soul and my life. Though very indirectly, I had an answer for my life’s purpose and direction. Growing up I had a lot of religious influence, Christianity in particular, and there’s a lot of shaming and damning of suicidal people to hell from them. Heavily religious people tend to be highly judgmental anyways, not loving or compassionate at all (ultimately lacking open-mindedness and understanding), but with people who are suicidal or might experience depression or other mental illnesses are immediately shamed, made fun of, or called weak. I heard it all plenty of times. “You just need to be stronger!”, “Suck it up and be a man!”, “Stop being a victim and weak!”, and all the other BULLSHIT that’s said out of ignorance, misunderstanding, and lack of compassion. I have this saying in my mind that people who judge people for being suicidal are taking the long journey to the grave. What I mean by that is that a lot of people might not take the route of suicide by they sure as hell numb themselves, avoid their own trauma and pain, and dissociate from how terrible their life and themselves really are. I already mentioned some distractions earlier in the post but there’s more distractions and tools and ways people numb that silent pain of death.
A lot of people aren’t that brand or strong enough to say “Fuck it, I’m dying tonight!” and go off and hang themselves or whatnot but they stay stuck in dead-end jobs, broken relationships, broken families, and hide in addictions. “I’m not suicidal!” Sure, you might not plan to kill yourself, but if you died you probably wouldn’t leave an impact. Most people are zombies in this way and from my perspective, just because you’re suicidal, depressed, mentally ill, or fucked up, it doesn’t automatically make you a failure. Why might I say that? Everyone has problems in their life no matter how rich, attractive, or high their status or authority is. You could be a president, world leader, celebrity, influencer, pastor, parent, family member, boss, and I don’t give a shit what their position is because problems don’t have biases. Suicide isn’t racist, homophobic, or biased against one group or another. Bipolar isn’t a Conservative. This is what I wish I had known sooner but back in those days, the dark days of past, I had this looming prison over me at all times. When I was at school I had met my first love and that’s how I got introduced to Q. She had sent me a link to Q and I didn’t know what it was at the time and never heard of it before but found the free-writing enjoyable. They had lots of cool quizzes like Harry Potter ones (probably my top favorite) and horror movie ones. Back then, there was a lot more messaging options then there is now so that aspect was better but in general I was digging the vibe.
I had started with a small following and wrote some about pain, family, and suicide or depression but what I didn’t expect was that this would soon be the place where I would post my suicide letter on. It was around the fall and Christmas season of 2018 (November 11th-14th) when I decided to write my suicide letter by hand. Another happening out of my control, I took my blanket and cloaked myself like Apostle Paul and sat down on my bed and starting writing out the reasons behind my suffering. As I started jotting down my inner-most feelings and thoughts of sorrow and pain the focus started shifting over to family then greater pains and struggles in life. I sat there silently, the suicidal apostle, finishing in just about a page and a half and examined it further. I didn’t expect any sort of family issues to come up outside of the sexual abuse and my second uncles alcoholism but I wrote one thing on there that stuck around with me (I’ll get to that later). I posted a lot of writings on Q like I mentioned earlier but something pulled me to post it on there. I debated if I should and went back and forth with self-doubt wrestling my mind but I eventually caved in and took the time to type it out. It took me some time and I made little edits to both the post and the writing itself. “WHEW!” I finally posted it I told myself! Now, I was familiar with how a majority of people react to someone being suicidal so I was expecting a lot of warning about “What would your family think of you when you’re gone?” or other guilt tripping questions.
What’s funny about these questions is that the answer tends to be in the question when it comes to reason why someone would kill themselves. An abusive family member or even a cold and ridiculing one could make someone suicidal or drive them to kill themselves. I don’t know if anyone of you can relate, but I can explain it best through my experience with my second uncle. My second uncle was a cool guy, smart, and had a mentoral aspect to him when it came to some guidance or life advice that I had needed but his alcoholism, depression, and verbal abuse got in the way. Verbal abuse isn’t really talked about much and it makes sense since sex trafficking and other more “important” issues need immediate attention but when it comes to understanding abuse in all of its forms, there’s subtle and obvious forms. The verbal abuse through sarcastic humor and just plain bullying wasn’t really fun to hear or be on the other end of and my self-esteem shot down overtime when I was around him. Imagine someone blowing cold air in your stomach that swirls like a windy thick fog and it holds you down like a prisoner shackled down to a jail cell. One of the biggest impacts and ways I’ve been verbally abused and seen it happen with others is that no matter what exact words are said, the end goal is to make you feel stupider. Think of a bully.
They want you to feel weak, broken, lost, and lower and lower in your self-esteem and self-worth. You even see it in work sometimes where a boss talks to an employee disrespectfully and take advantage of the position advantage. It’s one thing if you’re a coach, a drill Sargent, or someone trying to amp someone up because sometimes coaches or people in the military will say and do everything to break your will, mindset, and focus. They’re like bumbles on your ass, irritating little motherfuckers that won’t go away but the more you keep your focus on feeling better then it goes away. Trying to argue back with a drill Sargent or a coach is totally worthless but they’ll be hard on purpose and for a reason to not only try to break you but break limitations off of you because sometimes people can see things about ourselves that we can’t because remember this: no matter how old you get, you only know what you currently know where you’re at at that present place in time. We all have things to learn and grow on but verbal abuse is different in the fact that someone is PURPOSELY trying to make you feel worse about yourself through sarcasm, jokes, back handed comments, passive aggression, and through other methods for the purpose and intent to make you feel less about yourself and ultimately to make you feel like themselves. Outside of the elect few who get a joy out of hurting other people genuinely, people who do abuse feel terrible and horrible about themselves and though I’m upset and how I’ve been treated I do wonder if that’s what you can do to someone, what happened to you?
What thoughts run through your head? What makes you do the things you do? Understanding kicks in, not judgement. I fell asleep and waited some time, maybe a day, before I opened my notifications on Q. When I did, I was SURPRISED! I didn’t expect to have 24 notifications (around that number) and quite a few comments. People were here in support, appreciation, and thanking me for posting it. It wasn’t a bunch of people telling me what and what not to do, but a place where we started to talk about our struggles, issues, and experiences with family and others. One thing someone highlighted that I always thought about was how I said being in my family felt like a Debt System. Debt System is a perfect term because I feel like it can be like that sometimes, almost like the same concept of a Soul Contract. After posting the note, the path towards death day stimulated a motion towards taking action. I was motivated, focused, and everything else became second only to the ultimate goal: A Meeting with The Grim Reaper. I’d be present some in conversations but only by 2% as my mind would be elsewhere. Out at family events I would smile and do enough where people felt like I was fine since on the outside looking at me I did have a general good energy and made people feel good most the time. Life itself zoned out as within my mind I was focused on that goal. I knew I was going to die and each day went on plans got more firmer and firmer. Outside of the silent love affair with death, my self-harm and suicidal ideation (sometimes homicidal when dealing with family) started to grow.
I started having intense fantasies about jumping off the top story at one of the hospital buildings that my grandmother used to be in a lot due to her pancreatic cancer. The hospital was located by a freeway going both East and West and the highway/main-road going North and South with North heading towards mountains and further up the state and South further into farmlands and some canyons further out. It’s one of the most popular freeway entrances in the state so there’s usually a lot of traffic in the area, street racers at the ready, troopers and sheriffs lying in wait, people doing 15 over rushing to go home to then go to bed and rush to work and complete the cycle on repeat for years to come. The only time the roads open is usually midnight to four in the morning, which wasn’t a bad thing for me. I wouldn’t go in at night anyway, I had to go in during the day and do it there. I’m sure the security has buffed up because of mass shootings, school shootings, and overall paranoia of violence but a few years back then it was a bit more laxed and since we were in there frequently and they knew us, they didn’t pay us too much mind since they knew my grandmother was dying from the pancreatic cancer. I imagined myself walking in one day and heading up towards the elevator to the highest floor possible. Usually from there there’s locked stairs and possibly a roof ladder you could get up to there.
The issues lies in the fact that only authorized personnel or flight crew have access to go to the roof (makes sense so people like me at the time or others in a troubled state don’t jump off the building, or even dying patients wanting to end it all early) but in my mind and my plans I was going to be determined. I’m sure there’s a key or something at like the last door before reaching the roof but in my mind I would break a door so I can rush myself to the top then go stand at the edge of the hospital roof to look out at the view. The view was mid-afternoon to evening when the golden sun warms an autumn day like a warm cup of coffee on a brisk winter morning. I’d stand there tall and strong (similar to Shouya in A Silent Voice) and arms wide open accepting death and embracing a new start of a different kind in a different kind of body. I’d imagine myself jumping off the top ledge of the hospital building and feeling the air flow against my hair and clothes like an airplane taking off towards higher altitude. As I gain speed, feel more heavy, the rush of emotions and feelings running through my thoughts made me feel like I was on a sugar rush towards Heaven and Novocaine.
After I had gotten comfortable cutting myself it became my new hustle, religion, and comfort. It was there when no one else was. The blade understood what I was feeling and was able to communicate it in a clear and honest way unlike any other communication form. The brazen style of half serrated and half straight made it even more precise in pain. It’s a weird combination at first but the kind you crave after like trying combo pizza for the first time. I remember trying a slice of Costco combo pizza for the first time and I remember thinking it would be really gross and then HEAVENS DOORS OPENED! People might not understand why someone would want to cut themselves or get involved in self-harm and I can’t speak for everyone else because people have different reasons for doing the things they do or liking the things they do. Humans in general like to think that we know more than we know (we’ve all been there, trust me, it’s not just an age thing) and in the topic of self-harm people believe they like to participate in the practice/ritual (I’ll get to that later) for attention and that they like the “care” or “views” that comes from practicing it. First, majority of people who self-harm hide it like a pedophile hiding in a closet about their sexual desires and secondly, those people who do do it for attention ruin it for others who do self-harm and want a way out or just people who do it in general. It’s similar to other fields how 2% of bad ruins it for the other 98%.
Again, I can’t speak for others but for me it was one form of ruthless expression where the bloody scars tells tales of sexual grooming, rape, porn addiction, and lost sexual identity along with other struggles growing up in a troubling household (as those who are or have can relate to). It’s violent expression that brings REAL results and REAL release! It’s that emphasis on a practical action soothing an internal problem that drew me in since know I had an actual coping mechanism that didn’t last long, was simple to use, easily accessible at any time I desire, and was always a back-up plan or option with me. It was the best friend that I’ve never had, the miracle in the jungle of darkness, the solution to an inescapable and impossible problem, and the soulmate to a shadow-self. The reinforcement of the new scars with the old ones was almost a subconscious reminder of pain and how real the pain is. What I mean by how real the pain is is that the pain is REAL and I can’t do any hiding to avoid it. A lot of us hide in life and nowadays we have a lot more distractions and the list includes: social media, doom-scrolling, porn addiction, dissociation, smoking, drinking, sex, drugs (snorting, shooting up, smoking, etc.), relationships, spirituality, religion, healing (an odd one, but hang in there), having children (another odd one but parents try to receive the love they never had through children by trying to give them the childhood they never had and hope the child loves them back unconditionally, single mothers do this with children sometimes), listening to music, streaming services, TV, movies, having pets (attachment or relationship issues expressed here), eating, starving yourself, and dare I say, self-harm.
I could go on and on about all the familiar and the not so familiar distractions but they’re EVERYWHERE! The point is anything can be a distraction, even good things like getting a good job, exercising and being healthy, and healing but because of our unique individual challenges we can easily see how others limit themselves but when it comes to ourselves we can be blind. I was blind, you’re blind, and to a degree we’re all blind trying to find our way back home to Source (or finding ourselves in other terms). Self-harm having a violent side to it was great to me because I can identify a lot with pain and violence. The self-harm over the months got bad for me to the point that I remember this one moment I had taken a bath and got off the phone with my girl through text on Q. Before I had got in the bath, I had cut myself 6–7 times in a almost “spree” like fashion. The pressure of the shame from my past behaviors and actions piled on the aggressive anger towards my cousin and second uncle (with much more including grief coming from my grandmothers death and issues with my mother) I had started bleeding on my thighs some while others were just minor cuts. When I got into the bath I felt the urge to cut more so I stood up and continued to cut in a similar “spree” like fashion and in the end of that day I had cut myself 17 times, including some attempts on my genitals. I had told my girl about it, but not to the full degree so she didn’t assume it was as bad as it truly was.
I did try to cut myself in the genitals a few times by poking myself in the tip of my penis with the tip of the pocket knife (my prized choice in self-harm) and grabbing my scrotum and trying to cut through or against. The groin is one of the most if not the most sensitive part in the human body so I FELT EVERYTHING on my body and in the weapon itself. Without a shadow of a doubt it was one of the most unpleasant physical afflictions I’ve ever felt in my life. Even as I’m writing this I feel my body contracting when thinking about the pain there, the self-inflicted pain I believed was going to cure me but serve as punishment for my sexual sins. I got more confident in my craft and I remembered two times where I did it in public or close proximity with my family just because I could and I wanted to. I was sitting in the back of the car with my mother and sister when we went to pick up my younger cousin from school. I had a long-sleeve and hoodie on listening to a playlist mix. I had some instrumentals but also played other genres like Gorillaz or one of Mario’s hit songs Break Up. While we were waiting I was looking at the scars on my arms and I pulled out my multi-tool and pulled out my serrated knife and gave myself a quick cut or two. My multi-tool was a Christmas gift and my second favorite along with my Serrated knife. Both serve their purpose well. Anyway, there was a second time at my great grandmothers house that I took a chance on.
My mother, sister, and I were at her house getting ready for dinner and I had one of my knives on me (can’t remember which, but it was probably The Serrated one). One was in the restroom or the other room while my mom and great grandmother was in the kitchen and I stood up and without rehearsal I stood up and took one deeper cut and then one or two smaller ones. I had to wipe my arm a bit but then rolled my sleeves back down. I then continued on into the kitchen and laughed, ate some food, then went on my phone to listen to music and other videos. This concludes the second entry to my suicide attempts.
