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Description

[We all live in the dark, blind to what’s real. Come with me; feel the razor’s kiss. Let me show you that you  can still feel...]
     Have you ever felt so bad about something that you wanted to die? But didn’t go through with it? . . . Or couldn’t? So, I guess it doesn’t sound count as a suicide failed, but just as an on going attempt without much effort. Taking your chances every time not caring wether you lived or died? Like . . . Russian Roulette. But with a razorblade. Figured out what I’m talking about? Something that will touch almost everyone’s life in some way, just like birth, disease and death? That’s right. Cutting.
     And no. I’m not hear to tell you “don’t do it.” ‘Cause it honestly didn’t help me, not in the least. I’d just like to share my story with someone. I hope its ok with you, and you don’t get grossed out like almost anyone else has. So could you please try to open your mind to my past?
     I was a cutter. Did it longer then most of the people I know. It . . . It just annoys me because people know about it. the fact that so many people do it, but they’re oblivious to it a the same time. Well, not to the . . . the action, but to the reason. The real reason. Not what everyone says. “Oh they’re depressed.” No. That doesn’t work with me, not from what I know now.
    My story started in the fall of last year. I was exposed to it for a long time before that, by someone who was a friend. I don’t really know why I started, but I just knew then that the feeling was one of the most wonderful things I had felt in a long time. That is what most people don’t understand, I guess. And there’s no clear way to describe it. An adrenaline rush of unmatchable proportions. Such feeling that, even now, I still can’t understand. It was so new when I started, such a new sensation. But I knew it was wrong. So I didn’t do it again for a few weeks. That was when I still had power, before I was addicted. Yeah, addicted. A slave to my own pain. It sounds worse then it was though, because I was happy that way.
     But then, it started going too far. Way too far. I was consistently hurting myself as often as four times a week. That was too much for me. Then it got worse, not the amount of self injury, but the causes. It was just plain stupid. It got so bad that at one point I cut because I was frustrated over a school project. School!  I figured out then, that it wasn’t a reason to risk my life. Not just for some blood and a few minutes of a happy-high feeling. But I didn’t stop still. My friends were concerned, they talked to me about it, but I didn’t want anything to do with it.   My parents thought it was their fault, or something at home, but that had nothing to do with it at all.  I thought I was ok, and everything was for me, until it stopped working.
     After a while, in the late springtime, the cut wasn’t enough; the razor burn, blood and scars weren’t making me happy anymore. The rush was gone!  Then I realized that I did have a problem and that it wasn’t safe to do it. But I never went for help. I was pretty much forced into to getting a councilor by the school, but I figured it was the best thing to do. So I went through with it. But I don’t think that’s what got me to stop.
     LOVE  is what saved me. I know it’s corny but it’s true. And I really like to admit that. The person I love most in the world, above everyone and everything else, saved my life. It never impacted me when my friends told me to stop, even really close ones. But when he told me that he cared so much about my well-being, that was when it hit me. When I cut myself, I wasn’t the only one I was hurting. And I was hurting others really badly. That’s what got me to stop.  The guy who saved me, I literally owe him my life. I’m not even sure how to describe it, it’s such a wonderful feeling to know you’re loved that much. It really is.
     But now I’m better. I can say that with complete confidence. Of course, I still get the odd urge from time to time, but now they’ve almost faded completely. The counseling helped me with other things. The self injury experience gave me better ways to let out frustration without punishing myself for it. I use words instead, there is not stronger power for me then the written word or a painted picture. And above all, it made me value myself and my friends more. I’ve had friends that did or still do self injure. But I don’t get mad at them for it, all I know is that everyone has a reason to stop and me yelling at them won’t help one bit. I let them decide for themselves, cause most people weren’t exactly understanding with me.
     That was the entire point of telling you my story. To help you understand. I know why I did it, but I know it takes a long time to figure out. I just wanted to establish some sort of understanding for those who don’t self injure and know someone who did or still does. So now you know some more about it, and hopefully it will help if you ever have a friend in the same position as I was in. And hopefully they’ll eventually get better like I did.
    And now, my scars are fading . . . But they’ll never go away.

Description

[We all live in the dark, blind to what’s real. Come with me; feel the razor’s kiss. Let me show you that you  can still feel...]
     Have you ever felt so bad about something that you wanted to die? But didn’t go through with it? . . . Or couldn’t? So, I guess it doesn’t sound count as a suicide failed, but just as an on going attempt without much effort. Taking your chances every time not caring wether you lived or died? Like . . . Russian Roulette. But with a razorblade. Figured out what I’m talking about? Something that will touch almost everyone’s life in some way, just like birth, disease and death? That’s right. Cutting.
     And no. I’m not hear to tell you “don’t do it.” ‘Cause it honestly didn’t help me, not in the least. I’d just like to share my story with someone. I hope its ok with you, and you don’t get grossed out like almost anyone else has. So could you please try to open your mind to my past?
     I was a cutter. Did it longer then most of the people I know. It . . . It just annoys me because people know about it. the fact that so many people do it, but they’re oblivious to it a the same time. Well, not to the . . . the action, but to the reason. The real reason. Not what everyone says. “Oh they’re depressed.” No. That doesn’t work with me, not from what I know now.
    My story started in the fall of last year. I was exposed to it for a long time before that, by someone who was a friend. I don’t really know why I started, but I just knew then that the feeling was one of the most wonderful things I had felt in a long time. That is what most people don’t understand, I guess. And there’s no clear way to describe it. An adrenaline rush of unmatchable proportions. Such feeling that, even now, I still can’t understand. It was so new when I started, such a new sensation. But I knew it was wrong. So I didn’t do it again for a few weeks. That was when I still had power, before I was addicted. Yeah, addicted. A slave to my own pain. It sounds worse then it was though, because I was happy that way.
     But then, it started going too far. Way too far. I was consistently hurting myself as often as four times a week. That was too much for me. Then it got worse, not the amount of self injury, but the causes. It was just plain stupid. It got so bad that at one point I cut because I was frustrated over a school project. School!  I figured out then, that it wasn’t a reason to risk my life. Not just for some blood and a few minutes of a happy-high feeling. But I didn’t stop still. My friends were concerned, they talked to me about it, but I didn’t want anything to do with it.   My parents thought it was their fault, or something at home, but that had nothing to do with it at all.  I thought I was ok, and everything was for me, until it stopped working.
     After a while, in the late springtime, the cut wasn’t enough; the razor burn, blood and scars weren’t making me happy anymore. The rush was gone!  Then I realized that I did have a problem and that it wasn’t safe to do it. But I never went for help. I was pretty much forced into to getting a councilor by the school, but I figured it was the best thing to do. So I went through with it. But I don’t think that’s what got me to stop.
     LOVE  is what saved me. I know it’s corny but it’s true. And I really like to admit that. The person I love most in the world, above everyone and everything else, saved my life. It never impacted me when my friends told me to stop, even really close ones. But when he told me that he cared so much about my well-being, that was when it hit me. When I cut myself, I wasn’t the only one I was hurting. And I was hurting others really badly. That’s what got me to stop.  The guy who saved me, I literally owe him my life. I’m not even sure how to describe it, it’s such a wonderful feeling to know you’re loved that much. It really is.
     But now I’m better. I can say that with complete confidence. Of course, I still get the odd urge from time to time, but now they’ve almost faded completely. The counseling helped me with other things. The self injury experience gave me better ways to let out frustration without punishing myself for it. I use words instead, there is not stronger power for me then the written word or a painted picture. And above all, it made me value myself and my friends more. I’ve had friends that did or still do self injure. But I don’t get mad at them for it, all I know is that everyone has a reason to stop and me yelling at them won’t help one bit. I let them decide for themselves, cause most people weren’t exactly understanding with me.
     That was the entire point of telling you my story. To help you understand. I know why I did it, but I know it takes a long time to figure out. I just wanted to establish some sort of understanding for those who don’t self injure and know someone who did or still does. So now you know some more about it, and hopefully it will help if you ever have a friend in the same position as I was in. And hopefully they’ll eventually get better like I did.
    And now, my scars are fading . . . But they’ll never go away.