All the ways that people described me at the start of freshman year were cheerful, happy, and loving.  I always enjoyed being around people, giving them whatever they asked for, because I wanted to be helpful. Maybe this way they will like me? Never sure what people were thinking, so I filled in their thoughts with my own. "What is he doing? He is so annoying, I wish he would go away." Thoughts flooded my head of what I thought they were thinking. Scrambling for an answer, I searched for something to confirm or deny my assumptions. My heart rate quickened and my chest felt heavy. Panic set in as I sat alone in my dark cave, wondering why my phone wasn’t lighting up like everyone else's. Freshman year. The start of it? Possibly.

The next day I shouted to one of my best friend’s “Hey, Alex! Want to come over this weekend?” As I ran over to him, his face changed. I recognized this immediately and softened my tone. I did this thousands of times, and I mean thousands. My friends would tell me “No, we have to work.” Only later, I found at 7 o’clock on a Friday night in my hole, they were hanging out with other friends of mine. "Not a big deal, it's just one night, I will be invited next time." I thought. The problem was I wasn’t. I never was. At that moment I was blind. I fell for their lies, after doing anything these guys asked me to. I cared for a relationship that was never there. It was a thin, clear string that broke months ago, but I couldn’t see where it snapped.

I would sit in my room on warm summer nights. Every night. My room was my safe space. It was dark and empty, with a cool breeze flowing through my window. Music maxed out as my thoughts flooded my brain. I didn’t want to move. I couldn’t. I was glued to my bed with their violent words picking at my skin. Not a drop of emotion in my blood. Pain and numbness consumed me. Transferring those feelings away from my head and putting them anywhere else was my biggest priority. I slipped the small knife out of my nightstand. There was a loud click as the knife flicked open. The cool, metal blade slid against my skin. A red mark appeared as if a pen broke open on a blank piece of paper. Another slit and I finally relaxed. Cutting over and over as my thoughts faded away. 

In the morning, I threw a sweatshirt on to cover the marks. I was scared for the pool party later that day, hoping no one would notice the cuts on my arms, legs, and stomach. But, thankfully someone did. A true friend. She didn’t say anything right away. She sat quietly watching my actions to see if her suspicions were true. Days passed and eventually I received a call from her. She told me she understood what I was going through and wanted to help. 

Being stubborn, I pushed her away, not wanting any help. I cannot trust her. She will hurt me. I don’t need help. 

My mind continued to crack every second, to the point where I broke. The idea to grab the gun and pull the trigger sat restlessly in my mind. It hovered and changed any positive thoughts. I am doing this. It doesn't matter. This would make others happy. My parents found out a day before I was planning on ending it. She saved me. 

Being able to express these thoughts is what has kept me going. Six weeks of therapy and counting. The scars on my skin are a reminder of where I was and where I don’t ever want to end up again. The scars in my mind will never go away and trusting people is harder than ever. Blocking out toxicity in my life has been hard. Two to three-year relationships have ended. It is for the better, I continue to tell myself. I am finding my way, slowly but surely.