Bad relationships

Trigger warning: Eating disorder, self-harm, and suicide. Inspired by true events.

My name is Kasper. I am incredibly good at hiding things. In my family, emotions are looked down upon. You can still be sad, but not too sad. You can still be happy, but not too happy. Anger was never allowed. If you where angry either you would get a stern talking to or a hiding with the wooden spoon. You can imagine how, after so many years, it shaped the way I act, how I feel, and what I show. If you saw me now, you would not believe me if I told you that I was happy and energetic once. But I hide it so well to the outside world, that everyone knows me as the happy and kind helping one.

When I am sad, I am careful not to show it. I was taught through actions that sadness is wrong. If I am sad or tired my dad would make it a competition. And I always lost.

However, my family is not all bad, we have our good times. But of course, not too good. What my parents taught me, whether it was what they planned or what I learnt from the way they acted, helped me a lot in the real world. But sometimes people forget that I am just a seventeen-year-old. The standards they set for me can be, and is, overwhelming.

Once I graduated high school a year earlier than others I went straight to college. That is when it all started. The unfamiliar environment, the workload, the stress of exams. It was all too much. The small cracks I had where growing under the weight of it. Having to wake up at 4am every day and going to bed at 10pm just so I could get some quiet time took a toll. My health deteriorated, my hair started falling out. I started looking at food weirdly, in disgust and fear. Thing I never thought I would fall into habit of doing.

It all happened one day, after a week of tension with my parents, I went into my room and sat on the floor. Once I was safe, my walls dropped. My body was heated with rage and anger. I was hurt and so angry. But I could not release it because I might get in trouble. I did not know what to do, but I was overwhelmed, and the knife was right there. On my desk, from the meal I ate in my room. Its silver shine tempted my eyes. I did it once when I was younger, after an incident at school. I never thought I would do it again.

The signs where there, I thought about ending my life often, every day. But no could see it. I hid it so well. Which never helped me, when I told someone about it or mentioned it, they would always say the same thing.

“But your always so happy and kind.”

My mask blinded others. I had managed to unintentionally isolate myself; I screwed myself over. No one could see the scars because I would stop just before I broke the skin. I got creative and would bite myself on my upper arm where no one would see because my parents do not allow me to show my shoulders. Jokes on them, they created the perfect hiding spot. It would bruise over one day and the next week, when I am in my room I would do it again.

I tried stopping. After a while it seemed to work. But the need to feel something physically would overpower me. And that is when I spiralled. I did not know what it was, no one in my family saw it. When someone else mentioned how little I was eating, my parents would say the same thing again.

“She eats like a bird, small stomach that one.”

It was true, I ate barely anything. I would skipped dinner and push breakfast to about lunch time so I would not be too hungry through the rest of the day. But it was not textbook definition of an eating disorder. Some days I would eat normally and then purge the next week. Or I would eat sweet sugary things and skip on real meals. I would over exercise to burn the food I had just eaten. I would take over two hours to eat one small meal so that I would not feel full. I hated that feeling, being full. It hurt so much.

My mom noticed once but did not say anything about it. Eating disorders, mental problems like depression or anxiety, and even ADHD were forbidden in this household. They do not exist in my parent’s minds, its either lack of control or inability to manage their emotions. That’s why I could never and can never get diagnosed until I move out.

I never showed any signs of an eating disorder or body dysmorphia. When I did mention it, no one would turn their head. Because I seemed fine. I was just tired. I was just tired. I was just tired. To them I was just tired. Tired of everything. Tired of life. Tired of this world. My body. My hair. My family. Every breath I took felt like the world was teasing me, mocking me for my inability to commit. To commit to the thoughts, I have every day. The thoughts that won twice, but I could not. I could never bring myself to finish it off. To hold the rope for just a few more seconds. To end the life, I never wanted.

But to my parents, to everyone around me. I am fine. I am just the youngest daughter who can manage herself so well. Who is ahead of the other people her age. Who is not feeling isolated and lonely because they will not let me out of the house. I am just their little girl. Always happy. But never to happy.