The scars remind us that the past is real.03:20 Jul 16 2013
Times Read: 365
So many scars, so many stories, so much depression and unhappiness. I still remember the first time. The very first scars. I remember it clear as day. My mom was angry, she didn't know what I was going through at school, she never knew. She was leaving for work, she came out of her room yelling at me, She kicked the chair I was on, broke it. I moved and hid behind the chair, terrified. She left, and I just sat there, thinking, crying, breaking down. I'd seen kids at school cutting, mutilating their arms and wrists. If it helps them, why not me?? So I went into the bathroom with a wrench, got one of my razors and busted it open. I went back into my room, with my little box of tiny, slightly rusted razors. I sat behind the chair, and I drew the first letter into my skin. Then the second, slowly feeling better and better with each passing letter. Finally, I stopped crying, and I looked down at my arm. K-I-L-L-M-E. And after that, it just became a habit. Every time I just couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't take the kids at school. The constant harsh words and harassment. So I would go home, and I would cry, and I would add more scars. I was 14 the very first time I did it. I'm about to be 19 now, and still struggling. I rarely hurt myself anymore. I go months and months without it even crossing my mind. Then that one time will come, where its all too much, and the blade just comes into my mind. I remember how much better it used to make me feel. And I do it again. And then I sit there, hours later, looking at what I did to myself. Wondering how I could let myself do it again. I know I don't want to. I know I shouldn't. But it's like the depression takes over me entirely, like I just can't even think rationally, all I can think about is doing something, anything, to get the thoughts out of my head. The blood just mesmerizes me. It's so beautiful. The rich, crimson color. The way it looks traveling down my pale skin. And it relaxes me. Calms me. And I feel better. Temporarily.
It's so hard not to go back and do it again. But even when I do, it's just not the same anymore. Yet I still flip out and do it again. Knowing I don't want to. Knowing I will have to stress and worry about how I'm going to hide these scars in hundred degree weather.
I just need some other way to cope. When I started smoking weed, I was able to stop cutting all the time. I was able to relax, and just forget about all the stress, and stop caring about anything but my own happiness. I became so much happier, but the times when I can't afford to smoke, my depression can't be suppressed, and it becomes to much, and it becomes so hard not to just grab a razor and let the blood slowly take my mind into another place....
COMMENTS
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xAchillesx
18:33 Jul 17 2013
I think u still want him after all of this cause if u didn't,u would have stopped writing about him everyday, and u would of ditched his ass already,just a thought ;)