A silent scream ...

A bit of a squabble… yes, that's how it all started on this cold afternoon. A friend and I are sitting at the train station and counting each other up how many pimples we have when I joke that his whole head is one pimple. A joke ... nothing more, but he says:

"So what? Somebody said to me, YOU were a single pimple!"

"Who is a single pimple?" I ask because I did not understand this statement correctly and he says:

"Well, you just!"

I freeze inside, but don't let anything get outside.

"Did someone say that about me?"

"Yes!"

I fall silent as we board our train to go home. It's just a sentence, I think, a sentence from someone you don't even know ... and yet that sentence hits me like a red-hot arrow in the heart. Years of oppression in school ... bullying as some called it, murder as I put it. Again and again I was told by all my classmates, acquaintances and even friends how ugly I would be ... but nobody has ever called me a pimple ... What exactly is so wrong with me, I rack my soul and sit down in an open space.My friend too. I don't know what to think ... don't know what to say. So I close my eyes and listen inside. Yes ... there it is again ... that feeling. It's just very difficult to describe ... a shiver that seems to get stronger and stronger, the hair on my arms legs straighten, eats into my hurt heart ... a feeling that is only too familiar to me. I would have loved to scream: go away! Let me! I don't want to do this anymore!

But it remains, this oppressive blackness inside me and I try more and more to defend myself against it ... but I don't succeed.

People are talking in the car, children are screaming. But I just sit there with my eyes closed and fight my tears down ... tears of despair. I almost got over it ... I almost crossed the healing threshold! My hands are shaking slightly and I suppress this tremor by sticking my right hand into the left sleeve of my jacket and ramming my fingernails into my own flesh.In fact, the tremors are subsiding. I am not allowed to show my comrade what condition I am in. So I keep quiet, even though I would have loved to cry ... no, he mustn't know ... because it would burden him too much and I don't want that.

We reach our destination and I get out. He also. I spot a bus going in my direction and get on. Find a single place for me and sit down. While driving, a voice inside me becomes loud.

'You stupid cow! Did you think nobody would find you ugly anymore just because nobody told you straight to your face? Is that what you thought you got pretty Forget it! You heard what other people think of you! '

'Leave me alone!' I beg and get off at my bus stop. At an intersection, my comrade says angrily that he no longer sees any reason to do anything together and turns off at an intersection. My heart contracts painfully.

'So! Now you've made it.He's pissed off with you. This is the best time to finally draw a line! Finish it right when you're home. Your mother has a little gun in her nightstand. Take it, it's always loaded! '

'No! Go away! Please ... leave me alone ... please! '

I arrive at home and walk through the aisle. Past my room, past the rooms of my sister and my mother, who are both not at home today, into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror ... the feeling is getting worse every second that I don't do anything. The only way to free myself from this blackness, which slowly but surely eats my soul inwardly day after day, like a poison that is poured into me with every painful remark, is before my eyes ... A cutter, a small Japanese knife. I'm shaking, don't want to ... but have to, and slowly take off my clothes.

Why that? Is there no other way? Is there no help or something?Yes ... these thoughts keep roaming my head every time I do it again. I lift the small knife and let the blade extend ... then I slowly put the cutting edge on my left upper arm and ... make a long cut myself. Not very deep ... just a little blood. But it doesn't stop at this one cut. Again and again I use the knife again, drawing more furrows in my already scarred skin, again and again ... but then the feeling in me finally subsides. Fades until only a bitter aftertaste can be felt. And as the blackness disappears, I let go of myself and take a deep breath. My arm burns, it hurts almost unbearably but I enjoy the pain with my eyes closed. Yes, I'm better now ... I put the knife aside and look in the mirror again. As always, that empty, desolate look ... I take a handkerchief and wet it a little. Then I wipe off the blood that is running down my arm.Carefully, lovingly ... ridiculous when you consider what I've just done to myself but just as necessary. If the wounds heal poorly, more scars are left. Only through the wet cloth you can really see how big the dimensions are this time ...

My heart fills with a deep sadness when I wrap my arm with a bandage and sit down in front of the TV, as always ... Because this is my kind of anger, sadness, pain.

I forgot how to cry a long time ago ... I can't show anyone my true feelings ... I only have this ...

To scream in silence ...

There's no light in my world of darkness ... an I can only scream in silence ...