My Life, As It Is
After the first time, it all started to fall apart, and I was lost in a world of knifes, razors and blood. My friends didn’t really notice that it was something bad, because at first I guess it wasn’t. Here, let me rewind back to the beginning.
He died when I was only a couple months old and I know it’s nothing to be sad about but it’s fine, because I’m not, I hate my dad anyways, and I mean not for him dying but for him beating my older brother. But that’s besides the whole point.
At first, this so called world that I was in, it was exciting, never knowing when to stop cutting, but then not wanting to anyways. So I was left by myself, just like drawing, and to me, it was my only way of having fun, is that so hard to understand?
My mom always had a way of ‘fixing’ things. Going shopping was always her favorite. It never made any sense to me why she didn’t really care about what went on in the house when she wasn’t home, which was basically all the time. Hannah, my sister, was way worse when I was little and couldn’t hit back, and being thrown into walls would make me break down and cry. But I’ve gotten over stuff like that and now the only power she has in the house is what she can say to bring me down.
Back to the cutting, as I said before, it was fun, and in the begining I thought I had control. Truth was, I didn’t, in some way I knew that, but I quickly put that thought in the back of my head and kept going on with my ‘fun’.
I’ve been stuck with it for a few years. I can’t say that I’m happy with myself, but I can’t say that I’m not. My friends finally found out how bad it was. And them being friends, of course, tried to ‘fix’ me. Bring me back down to earth and become that once happy girl that they had known before. I still think that they don’t get that they can’t fix me, only I can fix myself.
I haven’t cut for about a couple months, I am kinda happy, but to tell you the truth I think that I am far from quitting. I don’t think that I will end up killing myself in the end, but then again. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I take this as an illness. Every day I can get a little bit better, there are those days when it gets bad. All I have to do is take this one day at a time. Maybe one day I will get better, maybe I won’t. I just have to stick around to find out.
I don’t really remember why I started cutting myself. It was the summer after 7th grade. I had a boyfriend, whose name I won’t mention, but I just wasn’t happy with him. So I cheated on him, but it wasn’t anything serious — just hand holding and some hugging. It was serious to him though and when he found out, he broke up with me. I realized I’d hurt somebody and I felt so horrible and I thought that I should punish myself. I took a pair of paper cutting scissors and just slid one end of it down my left arm. Then I made some cuts across so my arm was like a checker board. They weren’t bad — just cat scratches. But it hurt just enough.
I haven’t been able to stop for three years now. I’m going into 10th grade and even though I’m on Prozac,? I still have urges.