Copyright, Bobby

I never really believed I was a self injurer. I would visit sites full of images of girl’s tortured and mutilated bodies that so desperately resembled my own, but I consistently refused to draw a parallel between the diagnosed condition and my own state of mind. I still find it difficult to fathom that my behaviour is actually a condition. I started cutting myself about five years ago. I can remember internally begging for a manifestation of my thorough loneliness and sadness and that the begging provoked something within me that decided that a little scratch on my wrist would make everything OK. Now, years later, my body is riddled in scars from scratches, cuts, and burns and I still find that I am addicted to self injury. However, my addiction has evolved throughout the years and I find that I still cut as frequently, but I now cut and burn for the sensation of the cut, the fascination of the blood, and to remedy the boredom that comes out of not cutting, rather than cutting out of sadness. Occasionally, the sadness will reappear and I will feel the need to cut from those feelings as well — but I feel that the majority of my new cuts arose out of the addiction, and the fear to leave this part of myself. This secret, controlled, strong, rare part of myself that I’ve so greatly identified with over the years. Even now that I’ve strung these incoherent, random thoughts about cutting together I don’t actually feel like I’m a cutter — just a girl who is friends with a blade and never admitted it to anyone.


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