#a customer made the mistake of telling me she just had a traumatic brain injury

[bad-at-metaphors]

I wonder if my customers EVER look at me while I'm checking them in and feel any level of remorse for breaking the "no pets in the loan car" rule

[sil3nt-nick]

In 2013, Tumblr became my escape from an excruciating environment high school had created. I’d gone from earning the highest grades I’d achieved in my academic career to constantly receiving poor grades in a chemistry class. It may not seem as big of a deal today, yet at the time, I felt it defined me as a person. Everyone else seemed to be doing fine. I must have been some kind of idiot.

             I created a Tumblr account and began blogging about my depression. Countless other people my age were doing the same thing. I began feeling comfortable expressing my feelings and sexuality to the point where I posted images relating self-injury and eating disorders. This soon consumed my free time; I was constantly exposed to graphic, bloody images and emaciated bodies.

I cut myself all the time. Opposed to the eleven-year-old who started to get a rise out of his bullies years before, I hid my wounds in places people wouldn’t see. On my thighs, my upper arms and abdomen. Nobody would tell me I was seeking attention. I went a few days at a time without doing so, which was a milestone, but often didn’t stay “clean” for a few months at a time.

             Sometime during the winter, after inflicting a few wounds to my arms, I decided to take a photo of myself, exposing my wounds and also exposing my life story. I wanted people to know what I was feeling and that girls weren’t the only ones who did it. Within an hour, I had 500 notes on the post. Months later, it was thousands. Someone used my photo in another post and that garnered tens of thousands. Some people from school recognized me and contacted me over the website or in person.

             I look back now and can’t help feeling embarrassed. Did I really like posting this sort of thing? Wasn’t I angry about people thinking self-harm was for attention and was this asking for it? I was sixteen at the time and still struggling to find myself. I figured this was normal for some kids. I know now that I should have turned away from this content as soon as possible. It wasn’t until senior year that I deleted my original account. By then, I’d have hundreds of scars that I’ll have for the rest of my life.

             When I was eighteen, I considered myself recovered. I’d gone about a year without cutting. I was proud that my horrible first job hadn’t triggered a relapse. I had just started college and was going above and beyond my goals for grades. By the time winter started (I suffer from seasonal affective disorder) I started feeling down again. My new job started triggering more negative feelings and I eventually relapsed. For the two years I worked at the establishment, a pizza restaurant, I’d had unrequited feelings for a coworker that pushed me over the edge. I was borderline insane from being rejected and contemplated suicide for the first time in years.

             I later found a new job at a retail chain when I was nineteen. We faced, perhaps, harsher customers, yet I was getting paid much more. I don’t recall exactly when I relapsed again, but I remember the first winter working there, I’d began downing my depression with alcohol. I was twenty and had my coworkers buy my vodka until I turned 21 in the summer. I’d had a few spells here and there with cutting, which I wasn’t too worried about. On some occasions, I recall stress from classes or negative experiences from work that triggered a few spells, sometimes bad enough to leave the water running red in the shower for a long period or staining clothing and sheets that I would have to throw away.

             I grew my hair out, dyed it black and straightened it every day. I was called “ma’am” frequently. Although I preferred the label “scene,” everyone said I looked like a legitimate emo kid. I lived this way for months until I cut my hair and was unrecognizable to my coworkers.

The same coworker I knew from my second job had been hired again. I’d initially had my feelings for him resurface and fallen back into severe depression when he began a relationship with another worker who repulsed me. I started smoking and was still drinking. Finally, I confronted him and finally got the straight answer I needed. I wasn’t his type. It stung at first, yet I was able to forget my feelings of not knowing and soon grew to accept the label of “just friends.” However, I began exploring dating apps that started a new part of my life.

             In the fall of 2017, I’d made my way up to being a supervisor at the retail chain. The stress was still there, now to a bigger level, but I made more money than I ever had and it seemed worth it. I had a few people I chatted with online who could be potential significant others. Many just wanted sex and quite a few were interested in me who were twice (or even thrice) my age. A lot of people I was interested in ignored me.

             A guy who had initially blown me off messaged me one day. I remember being so excited and couldn’t wait to have a conversation. We messaged a few times but it was short lived. Then he seemed to ignore me again. One stressful day, I remember deciding to relapse. I would buy a pack of razors and cut once I got home. I’d never have the chance to be with someone. Especially someone I liked.

             After drinking tequila and schnapps, I opened the razors and removed my pants. Quick, sharp cuts formed on my right upper leg. I felt an intense euphoria from the pain, a phenomenon that releases endorphins in the brain. Wiping the blood from the floor, I went to my room and went to bed. I was surprised the next morning to discover one of the cuts hadn’t stopped bleeding, like they always did the by the morning after. I hid the blood leaking through my pajamas as I made breakfast. I went to work and wore dark clothing. By lunchtime, it hadn’t stopped.

             I drove home and tried making a makeshift bandage. I kept telling myself to stop bleeding, although I knew it wouldn’t work. I returned to work, panicking about my wound. I was getting blood on my uniform. Someone would notice eventually. I later told a coworker who’d gone through similar problems. She convinced me to go home. It was the first time I left work early.

             When I got home, I stayed out of view. I still lived with my family and didn’t want them to find out. My dad later came into my room and I was forced to explain what was going on. For the first time in my life, I knew he was scared. He said I probably hit an artery. We tried to bandage it up but the blood always leaked through. After a few hours, he drove me to the emergency room. The workers there stated they couldn’t do stitches. It had been too long and I was at risk for a staph infection. Devastated, we left after all they said they could do was bandage me up.

             Later on, we went to buy a stretching bandage that would apply pressure after it was applied. He bandaged up my leg and we propped it up, waiting to see how it would end up in the morning. The experience brought us closer, yet it was so traumatic. I hated getting other people involved in my mistakes. Thankfully, by morning, the bleeding miraculously stopped. It took weeks before it was fully healed over.

             Thirteen months later, I can say I haven’t cut since. I am now twenty-two and back in college. I vowed after that night I would never do it again. Sometimes it’s still in the back of my mind when something negative happens, but I force myself to remember how scared I was and how I could never go back to that point. My depression is still there. I suffer from it daily and stopped taking my medicine, as I have had no success with antidepressants for the past decade. I fear a relapse, but I’ve somehow managed to keep myself from it for so long. Now that I’m away from home and on a leave of absence from work, I drink considerably less.

             In the end, I’m hoping I don’t fall back into my old habits. It’s a long and uncertain road ahead with my education, yet I believe I can make it. If I can make it this long, I might never do it again. I’m still uncomfortable talking about my history and have had awkward conversations with potential romantic partners. Honestly, what I can say saved me was my positive peer group and my therapist who supported me every step of the way.