Me and my pains

I have read many of the other bios. Every one was different, because each was an individual struggle. There are so many struggles. Well this is my struggle…
I was just a normal teen in high school, with my mind focused on going to college. Living the dorm-life was what I looked forward to. While I was getting things prepared during my senior year, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I knew that I could leave the family now. But pressure was coming from friends of my family for me to stay and help take care of them. I had an older sister—but she was busy with her college life. So I stayed in my hometown and attended community college. “Just until mom gets better”… so I thought. Mom continued to get worse. College wasn't even on my mind anymore. I just wanted my mom, who was my best friend: the one who helped me get through school, graduate with honors, went out of town with me everywhere, taught me how to drive, cook, and do everything that I know how to do. I just wanted her better. She was diagnosed April 2008 and died December that same year. I was stunned.
After she died, people would come to my house to show me how to take care of “my” family. How to cook, clean, do laundry, bills and run errands for my dad, two younger brothers, younger sister, and older sister (don’t ask why she can’t help me with anything, because I don’t know). In fact, none of them help me with much. My younger sister learned to be more helpful, but I’m still alone in this. My dad is angry all the time: yelling, and arguing. I feel like I lost both of my parents. I felt like all my friends were just out having fun without me, forgot me, and didn’t care about my situation. I was angry with myself for not getting back to the hospital one night to see my mom before she went unconscious. It still lingers in my mind. I hated myself. So I punished myself. Cutting into my skin felt crazy. It hurt but it felt so good. I don’t even know what motivated me to do it. But I did. That was August 2009. I couldn’t stop myself. I bought my own blades so my dad wouldn’t wonder why his were missing out of his tool bag, where I originally found them. I had myself a little system going that appeared to be working.
One day I happened to stroll over to my friend’s house. She was out of town but her mom was there. That’s when she discovered all the cuts on my arms, which were still fresh. She broke down crying and I felt so bad. I told her not to tell her daughter. She said she wouldn’t—but she did anyways. Her daughter is one of my best friends. She was upset, but figured I would stop and grow out of it. When she realized I didn’t stop cutting after she asked me to, she told me to tell my dad before he heard it somewhere else. So I did. To cut to the chase, I ended up in therapy after three months of cutting. I have now been a cutter for ten months, so it must be working (not). I guess it takes time. I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. I am now on my 4th antidepressant because the previous ones didn’t work. I’m surprised they put me on medication, considering I had another problem.
I discovered what happens when you take a whole lot of sleeping pills, allergy pills, or random painkillers I got when I had to have a surgery. I was knocked out until the next day, and during the next day I would be distracted by the fact that things sounded weird and I had poor coordination. When I discovered I could run away from my family’s fits of yelling, arguing, throwing stuff, or them just being ridiculous—I would take something and fall asleep. Sometimes I would take so many it would be half—or more than half— of the bottle. I realized how dangerous this was. I wished something would happen to me. But nothing ever did. One time I told a friend what I did. She told me it was because God didn’t give up on me yet, and I shouldn’t either. I tried to take this into consideration. After nine months of OD issues, I am happy to say I don’t struggle with that so much anymore.
I wish I never started cutting. The depression—I will admit—is something that I would have dealt with no matter what. I can’t handle the pressure of my family and the lack of family that I live with. We have fallen apart. I don’t even see us as a real family anymore. I feel like I have basically become a mother to three kids. I have a job and I am a full time student. I wish I could live like a twenty-year-old should…but I don’t. Injuring myself seemed like an escape to my problems though I would only hate, punish, and cut myself more to feel better; it’s a vicious cycle. Sexual abuse in my childhood doesn’t help the situation either. I have hurt my friends over and over again. They keep threatening to leave me if I don’t stop. My family treats me differently now and it's definitely not better. It has been four weeks since I last injured. I have a pretty good friend who reminds me that my mommy wouldn’t want this for me. I miss my mom so much. Sometimes the emotional pain becomes so unbearable I cry and can’t breathe, and want to stop. I become desperate and cut. If I slip up, the only thing I can do is hope that next time the gap lasts longer. I wish I never started but I really wish the people in my life were there more to help me; at least a little, please.