May 2018
Dear 2020,
I was planning on writing you a letter that explained in my own words everything that happened this morning, but if you’ll please excuse me, then I won’t. I simply don’t feel like I want to relive such an experience through writing to you about it. I’m sorry.
All that you really need to take away from this morning to understand where I am now is these things:
I started eating semi-normally again
Dad doesn’t understand/ believe in apps like Calm Harm and Breathe. He instead thinks that forcing me to work when I’m down works instead. He obviously has no idea.
When I’m really down, I check-out. (I will explain this in a moment)
Dad doesn’t really love me. (I know, I know. Obvious, right?)
School is now officially better than home.
I like ants and wish I had been born one.
Lo-fi hip hop is my new jam.
I forgot to take my medicine last night, and nobody cut me any slack. (My mom is supposed to remind me, but did she apologize? NO, she was just angry that I didn’t go to school today)
I didn’t go to school today but wish I had.
When I check-out my self-harm risk level rises dramatically
I don’t need knives or razors to self-harm.
My knuckles are greatly torn and the sidewalk is ******.
I can’t talk much when I check out, and self-harm makes me smile.
If I self-harm enough, I go numb.
I can’t remember clearly what happens when I check out and when I check out I lose track of time.
I think my dad called me an idiot.
I’m pretty sure that Dad likes Sean better than me and probably wishes I was more like him. So do I, lol.
I really don’t have any explanation about my knuckles. I don’t know at all what I will say to people at school, the doctor, or the therapists, or Ginger. My mom asked me why, and I just said, “I’m sorry.” (I was still half checked-out then)
The reason I was outside on the sidewalk at all is that Dad told me to go pull weeds.
After the knuckles, Mom told me to put on her gloves and I think I bled enough to ruin the leather forever.
My knuckles will probably be scared because they bled more than my wrist and that is scarred.
I never want to have a husband. I either want a wife or no spouse at all.
I am kind of scared of my Dad but hate him at the same time.
Dad acts like nothing is wrong.
I think Dad is angry because if it weren’t for me, he’d have a perfect, normal family.
I can never see men the same way again.
“Quit being an idiot. Do you feel better now, eh?”
About an hour after I checked back in, I had the worst and longest chest pain of my life.
I know I just basically told you what happened in the morning, but this way it doesn’t hurt as much to relive. Besides, If you're reading this then you probably already know what happened.
Anyways, I cleaned my room. And I took down all the posters, art and stuff yesterday. I even turned my books the other way so that I don’t have to see the art on them. Sometimes seeing things with art is like a slap in the face, as if the book itself is saying, “Look what I can do, what you can’t!”
The app called Calm Harm says that you should record when you self-harm and write what the trigger might have been. The first times it was because my mother was leaving. This time I think I was scared, angry, and suicidal, which are amplified when I check-out. I couldn’t get a grip on reality at all (hence being checked-out) and I guess this way brought (even if only a little bit) back to reality. But really, I don’t like talking about it at all. Especially not in person.
I told Lauren this yesterday (from the 741741 crisis helpline) I don’t know how I would **** myself, but I know where. I would **** myself in the place that I used to go to be happy. I meant the place underneath the highway, on the neighbor’s property across the highway. Noone is ever there, so the police (when they went looking for me) would find my body, not my mother. And I think it is kind of metaphoric (Lauren called it philosophic), going to the place I used to be happy, so I can be happy one last time as I **** myself. But unless I brought my own rope for hanging, or gun for shooting or something, I could really only drown myself there (since it’s in the creek). And I’ve read about that, read that it is a horrible way to die and that it’s very hard too because your body is fighting against you and that if you fail, you could have serious brain damage. I am very scared of that, failing I mean. I would much rather use something I know would work, like noose or gun than something that has a significant chance of not working, like wrist slitting, drowning, of jumping. I’m sorry. This is a bit morbid, and I know I should write about them. But it is better to write to you about them, and get them out than it is to have them rattling around in my brain until I do them, is it not?
I believe so.
With as much love as I can muster (which isn’t much),
Love,
Hollin Stewart
I was planning on writing you a letter that explained in my own words everything that happened this morning, but if you’ll please excuse me, then I won’t. I simply don’t feel like I want to relive such an experience through writing to you about it. I’m sorry.
All that you really need to take away from this morning to understand where I am now is these things:
I started eating semi-normally again
Dad doesn’t understand/ believe in apps like Calm Harm and Breathe. He instead thinks that forcing me to work when I’m down works instead. He obviously has no idea.
When I’m really down, I check-out. (I will explain this in a moment)
Dad doesn’t really love me. (I know, I know. Obvious, right?)
School is now officially better than home.
I like ants and wish I had been born one.
Lo-fi hip hop is my new jam.
I forgot to take my medicine last night, and nobody cut me any slack. (My mom is supposed to remind me, but did she apologize? NO, she was just angry that I didn’t go to school today)
I didn’t go to school today but wish I had.
When I check-out my self-harm risk level rises dramatically
I don’t need knives or razors to self-harm.
My knuckles are greatly torn and the sidewalk is ******.
I can’t talk much when I check out, and self-harm makes me smile.
If I self-harm enough, I go numb.
I can’t remember clearly what happens when I check out and when I check out I lose track of time.
I think my dad called me an idiot.
I’m pretty sure that Dad likes Sean better than me and probably wishes I was more like him. So do I, lol.
I really don’t have any explanation about my knuckles. I don’t know at all what I will say to people at school, the doctor, or the therapists, or Ginger. My mom asked me why, and I just said, “I’m sorry.” (I was still half checked-out then)
The reason I was outside on the sidewalk at all is that Dad told me to go pull weeds.
After the knuckles, Mom told me to put on her gloves and I think I bled enough to ruin the leather forever.
My knuckles will probably be scared because they bled more than my wrist and that is scarred.
I never want to have a husband. I either want a wife or no spouse at all.
I am kind of scared of my Dad but hate him at the same time.
Dad acts like nothing is wrong.
I think Dad is angry because if it weren’t for me, he’d have a perfect, normal family.
I can never see men the same way again.
“Quit being an idiot. Do you feel better now, eh?”
About an hour after I checked back in, I had the worst and longest chest pain of my life.
I know I just basically told you what happened in the morning, but this way it doesn’t hurt as much to relive. Besides, If you're reading this then you probably already know what happened.
Anyways, I cleaned my room. And I took down all the posters, art and stuff yesterday. I even turned my books the other way so that I don’t have to see the art on them. Sometimes seeing things with art is like a slap in the face, as if the book itself is saying, “Look what I can do, what you can’t!”
The app called Calm Harm says that you should record when you self-harm and write what the trigger might have been. The first times it was because my mother was leaving. This time I think I was scared, angry, and suicidal, which are amplified when I check-out. I couldn’t get a grip on reality at all (hence being checked-out) and I guess this way brought (even if only a little bit) back to reality. But really, I don’t like talking about it at all. Especially not in person.
I told Lauren this yesterday (from the 741741 crisis helpline) I don’t know how I would **** myself, but I know where. I would **** myself in the place that I used to go to be happy. I meant the place underneath the highway, on the neighbor’s property across the highway. Noone is ever there, so the police (when they went looking for me) would find my body, not my mother. And I think it is kind of metaphoric (Lauren called it philosophic), going to the place I used to be happy, so I can be happy one last time as I **** myself. But unless I brought my own rope for hanging, or gun for shooting or something, I could really only drown myself there (since it’s in the creek). And I’ve read about that, read that it is a horrible way to die and that it’s very hard too because your body is fighting against you and that if you fail, you could have serious brain damage. I am very scared of that, failing I mean. I would much rather use something I know would work, like noose or gun than something that has a significant chance of not working, like wrist slitting, drowning, of jumping. I’m sorry. This is a bit morbid, and I know I should write about them. But it is better to write to you about them, and get them out than it is to have them rattling around in my brain until I do them, is it not?
I believe so.
With as much love as I can muster (which isn’t much),
Love,
Hollin Stewart
That day was ruff.
