It Was My Control

It all started when I was about 13. My sisters father was abusive, I had no escape In a world full of crazy I wanted to have control over one thing in my life. Cutting was my control, it was all in my hands, how deep I wanted it, how much I wanted to feel.. It was my escape.

I continued for years. My mom left my sisters father for another abuser, The battle of the crazy continued with another man, Drinking, Drugs, Abuse.. My life was in shambles. I had no support. My mother didn't care, as long as she wasn't alone.

I tried other outlets, I really did, Writing, Painting.. Anything to try and give me control over something. I resorted to writing poetry. Always poems about the blades, The blood, The pain.. The the thing I craved so, but knew I needed to avoid, The cuts were visible, and people were asking questions.

My mother found my poems, Blamed it on the music I was listening to and grounded me for "thinking that way" It was a cry for help, a cry for attention. She didn't see it. For months I wore wrist bands with razor blades under them. I took my blades everywhere, Just for those moments I needed to see the blood, I needed to feel the burn of the razor slicing my skin.

I was about 16 at this time. The cry's for help all went ignored until I met the love of my life ( im 20 years old now and we are still together) I believe 100% he saved my life. I still get the urge to cut. I do. I have a blade in my cabinet in my bathroom "Just in case" But I have not used it in 4 years. I don't know why I keep it, probably just my way of keeping that control, Keeping a memory of my past and a security blanket for the future.

I tell my self every day "Live for the little things" Don't let the big things bring you back to the blade... The little things are what make life worth while.
An Ep User An EP User
Jan 21, 2013