Dear Anonymous

• Jacinta Antoniazzi, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2014

Dear Anonymous,
I’ll tell you a bit about my life since it won’t matter after tonight. I started to cut last year. It was my second year of high school. I was in grade eight. My parents spilt up around term two. They kept telling me that it was not my fault. They told me that they were splitting because they didn’t love each other like they used to. They were lying. I knew it was because of me. My grades were beginning to slip. Classes were getting harder. I found it difficult to concentrate. I felt like everything was caving in on me. I began to have suicidal thoughts. I needed an outlet. I needed to do something. I had to harm myself in some way. That’s when I had the idea of getting a blade. I went into my bathroom and found a razor. I popped the blade out and realized how easy it was to get it. I held the razor lightly in my hand. I wondered how much damage I could cause myself with this simple device. I didn’t think clearly about what I was going to do next. I remember looking at the blade, then dragging it across my wrist. It didn’t hurt like I had expected, although it had a calming effect on me. I cut myself repeatedly that night. I remember a lot of blood. The blood flowed from my wrists and arms in a slow and steady pace. When I snapped out of the trance-like state I was in, I realised the mess I had made. I collected paper towel and began to clean it up. The next morning, my mother had no idea what had happened last night. I was thankful. I felt ashamed by what I had done, but it brought the relief I had been craving. I began to cut every night. I thought that I was going to recover from this, but I broke down and cut again. I wore long sleeves to cover up the scars and fresh cuts. Once I realised that I had no room to cut on my arms anymore. I began to slice my thighs. It gave the same relief as slicing my arms, but there was more to cut through. It felt good to cut up more of myself. It felt good to harm myself. This was an addiction.
Recently, I began to really consider suicide. I use to have a talent for the arts; like drama. I wanted to go out looking dramatic. I wanted it to be almost like it was a piece for drama. If I’m going to go out, why not make it dramatic? Even though you will not see me, I’ve got a strapless midnight blue dress on, ruffled at the bottom, with matching heels. I bought it specifically for this occasion.
This is where I end things. Thank you for reading my letter. There’s only one thing left to say;
Goodbye.
Yours sincerely,
Jacqueline Rose