My Deepest, Darkest Secret

500 Words2 Pages
I was barely 7-years-old when I became suicidal. I suppose this is around the time most people have some sort of religious or spiritual awaking in their life. The death was like a black box to me and I wanted to open it and see what was inside that box. I was thinking about what will happen to me after death. I felt the most effective method would be to shoot myself. There was only one problem - we never had a handgun or any other type of firearm in our house. So shooting myself was scratched off the list. I thought about hanging myself, but I couldn’t find any rope in the garage. The main goal here was to succeed. If I failed, not only would I have to live with that failure, but I would have to live in general. My family, my friends and my entire school would find out how messed up I was. I couldn’t face the amount of humiliation that would come with not only feeling like a failure in life, but also having a failed suicide attempt tied to myself as well. My first attempt was immediately after school. I had stepped off the bus and walked straight into my parent’s kitchen. My mom often complained that she never had a good, sharp set of knives. So I decided if I were to slice my wrists, I would need to put some muscle in it. I was clueless as to which was the best way to do it – to slice vertically or horizontally. I figured I would do both, just to make sure. I took out a steak knife that I usually ate dinner with and began digging it into my flesh. I cut into the inner side of both arms. When the blood began to pour, all I thought about was it staining the countertop. I didn’t want my Mom to be angry at me for making a mess. For whatever reason, it never dawned on me that a blood stained countertop would be the least of her worries if I were lying lifeless on the kitchen floor when she arrived home from work. I couldn’t see that far ahead. I couldn’t look rationally
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