Author Topic: The First And Last Time I Cut Myself  (Read 854 times)

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on: 06:56 PM, 03/ 7/19
I want you to understand something.

All of my friends cut themselves and I hated it. I hugged them, I cried with them, I took the time to understand their pain and helped many of their scars heal, as well as, prevented new ones.

I did this all while I lived a life of fear. And I never told them, because they didn’t need to know. They didn’t need more pain, more reasons to cut.

Two of my closest friends were addicted to cutting themselves and they knew it, they talked about the release, to them it was their chance to feel SOMETHING when they felt nothing, and it felt so good. I’d dare to call it close to an “off the wall, greatest orgasm ever”.

Well, I told myself I would never do it, that I didn’t need to and that my situation was different.

It wasn’t, in fact, many might say it was worse.

At school I was a loner who hung out with loners, I was low energy and liked it that way. At home I was an unfeeling robot, chores, chores, chores, eat, chores, homework, chores, whipped with a belt, shower, bed and cry myself to sleep.

No one knew I was becoming suicidal. I told no one.

No one knew I saw myself jump out my 3rd story window. I told no one.

No one knew my step-grandfather was a pedophile. I told no one.

No one knew he tried to coerce me into his bedroom. I told no one.

So the day I finally started giving into my mind’s desires would of course come. There was nothing stopping it.

My friend showed me how to remove the blade from a sharpener, but I used a razor.

My body was shaking so much that when the blade touched my skin, I didn’t even have to move to create multiple cuts, 3 of those cuts were deep enough to bleed. I bled so much.

I bled more than I was prepared for. I was crying as softly as I could, the cuts stung like hell and I couldn’t keep all the blood in the sink because my body didn’t have the strength to stand.

So I collapsed in front of the sink, hitting my head on the way down. I sat criss-cross and stared down at my wrist. There was a fascination there. And in that moment, I understood why. It felt so nice, I wasn’t thinking of anything else but the blood that ran down and stained my socks. The stinging sensation, the unending rivers of red. It was so comforting, like cuddling with someone you love. All my worries were gone. Now all I needed was for someone to come in here with a gun and shot me in the back of the head.

This only lasted moments.

The loud opening of the front door made me jump, my stepmother’s voice, welling fight or flight. It was so slow, but so fast, I was on a time limit.

I cleaned the bathroom of every splotch of blood that I could find. Rushed out of the room, a bandage around my wrist. Went into my room and put on a new long sleeve shirt and some bracelets to hide the bulkiness of my bandage and then ran downstairs to greet the woman who punished me of being a burden on her. My Stepmother never knew and I never did it again.

I look back at that time a lot, it still haunts me. I won't cut. I don’t need to cut. It’s honestly, not helpful. I understand the reason, I get the feeling, but, it won't solve my problems and I’ve found more productive ways to escape the pain of life.