More Red Tears.

I posted my story in the group "I used to cut my self", but this group is honestly the one I should be posting to.  I thought that cutting was something I had overcome, but like any addiction it is never far gone. I have been cutting my self on and off since I was 16, it started as a last ditch plea for someone, any one to see that I was suffering and I needed help. I didn't have any understanding of depression or mental illness at that point, all I knew was that something was very wrong with me.  I never got the help I was hoping for, my family, co workers, and teachers never seemed to take much notice of the cuts that crisscrossed my arms, but I did find escape.  The first few times I pulled a razor blade across the pale skin of my wrists I cringed from the pain, repulsed at the sight of  my pooling blood,  I never imagined that I would ever find peace and calmness in the very act of hurting my body. But after the first few times, I found that although the hurt and despair in my mind might be overwhelming, I felt a sense of calm and peace when I hurt my body. When I cut my self  I felt a sense of control in an unstable world, calmness in the routine I always fallowed. Covering my lap with something to catch the blood, laying out the razor blades, studying my wrists for the place to cut, the biting pain and dripping blood like a cleansing  flood of tears, and finely cleaning and wrapping my cuts, tending to them with care and tenderness that I never gave my body or mind. The preparation , the act it's self, and the tending to the cuts afterward , became a ritual I first craved, and soon depended on to cope. At first I only felt the desire to manage by cutting when I was extremely upset, or angry at my self. If I failed a test it was a way to punish my self, and to block the feelings of self-hate I felt, I wanted to be perfect, and hated my self for never being good enough, never smart enough, never good pretty enough, and by cutting I was able to punish my self, as well as escape the sadness and despair that seemed to have taken over my thinking. But I soon found that  I escaped by cutting more and more, like a drug addict I found more and more reasons to indulge in what was fast becoming an addiction for me,  I no longer cut to punish my self, but to for the serenity it gave me. I had refused to allow my self to cry, and my blood became the tears I could not cry, the touch of the blade the hugs I so longed to feel, the band-aids and antibiotic cream, the care and love I so needed to feel. But just as an addict needs more of their chosen drug to feel the same high, as time passed, the shallow cuts I started with no longer seemed to be enough, and I found my self with deeper and deeper cuts, leaving scars that didn't fade away. I resolved over and over to stop, to find some other way to deal, I moved and made friends who pleaded with me to stop, I was hurting them more then I ever hurt my self I knew, and I tried to learn new ways of dealing. But old habits are hard to erase, and try as I might, after months of holding back, I would reach a point of feeling like I couldn't't take the presser any more, and I would reach for a fresh blade and the escape I knew I would feel. I hate that I still fight this addiction, I have had more stitches then I can count, my wrists are covered with short white scars, and the long, jagged, angry pink ones baring the telltale railroad tracks of sticthes. In the summer I dread strangers and coworkers seeing my arms, with every new friend or lover I debate how to reply to the questions that always arise. I dread seeing the hurt looks on the faces of friends who care when they see my arms wrapped in gauze, or a new scar. But despite all this, I can't stop once and for all. I hold back for months at a time, but I always seem to reach a point that I give in, sometimes it seems like I find my self so caught up that I'm looking down at my bloody arm without even recalling the point that made me give in.
rescueangel rescueangel
26-30, F
1 Response Aug 5, 2010

Wow...this sounds like something I would have wrote. You aren't alone.