margins mag. (dec)

Illustration by Valentina Quiñonez

 

Closure with my past is no tears streaming down my face and no scars. Closure with my past means picking out good moments amongst all the bad ones, to be able to reflect without anguish. Closure with my past means remembering those who wronged me and not necessarily forgiving them, but accepting their actions and my own.

Closure is difficult to reach and has been a slow, burning process for me, but I think that I have truly come to terms with my past.

To spare details, I had been bullied in school ever since I was eleven; it led me to absolutely hate myself, and to begin self-harming. When I moved, I was bullied in my new school even more—for the same reasons (actually, I wouldn’t know for sure), yet with double the extremity and triple the cuts. My feelings of hate grew to a point of almost no return: close enough for me to attempt to kill myself.

Without any help, I was stranded. My “friends” didn’t believe that most of the small high school I attended tormented me with any chance.I was the butt of most jokes.  I was the person to approach and hurt or taunt just because it was cool. The guidance counselor told me I was making up stories for attention, and she hugged the same bullies with motherly love. My parents,they didn’t know anything. When I tried to get them to help me see a psychologist, they shunned the idea because I was just “acting out,” or “trying to be edgy.”

So I bottled myself in more.I grew resentful, hateful, jealous of the people who had the love I desired, jealous of students who could pass through the hallways without anyone staring at them and laughing. I hated my life, but mostly, I truly despised myself.

Five years, two homes, and hundreds of cuts and jabs  had made me exceptional at hating myself. I was nervous, closed off, and afraid of my peers. I made every move with calculations, asking, “How can I act so that I won’t be laughed at?” I stayed quiet in every class, though I wanted to participate. I didn’t join anything, didn’t do anything, except wallow in self-hatred.

My mother told me to be like her friend’s kids. My father insulted me everyday. My friends didn’t notice, didn’t care, and I didn’t—don’t—consider them friends. In school, no one cared, and no one stopped.

It was pathetic.

I think that this version of me, one that I absolutely despised, made it easier to hurt myself, and for others to see my vulnerability. I kept wondering why they cared about me so much if I suck. I stopped crying because I didn’t feel much except ugh, and sliced through my skin every shower and every morning and every evening.

Now, if you’re wondering how I’m doing today, halfway through my senior year, let me tell you. Well, I’m absolutely indifferent. I have stopped cutting— not permanently, since recovery is a process with its ups and downs, but I don’t have fresh scars, or blades hidden beneath my bed anymore.

The bullying hasn’t stopped, but there is a sense of indifference around me that makes people give up. I know they talk and laugh, behind my back. Even my best friends despise me. Yet, I oddly cannot find myself to care that much. I focus on improving myself, and I enjoy my own company when I have no one else.

I look back and think, how? Just a year, maybe a year and a half ago, I was probably cleaning blood off my sleeves or hiding from bullies. I did not achieve it years ago, or unexpectedly—but I did receive it: closure.

Before today, I don’t think I could say I felt closure. To be honest, I always felt like that word in its  definition was not meant for someone my age. But I think it’s fitting to describe what has led me to become someone I don’t want to murder.

 

For anyone going through any sort of situation right now in which they cannot reach closure, I think that, with time, all things will eventually fade. Humans don’t have extremely long attention spans. Our ability to devote our lives to caring about one thing is difficult. With help, time goes by faster. There may be someone out there to support you–whether it comes from a loved one, a mentor, or a doctor,  and I truly hope that there is someone. It is important to remember that you are not alone. It’s cliche, but it works. Knowing you are not alone is a reinforcer: if they can get through it, you can too!