Copyright, Cetta

I only started cutting a short while ago. At that time, I was using safety pins. Sure it may seem ridiculous, but at the time… It felt good.

My past has been, as I see it, not too great. My memories are filled with pain. My parents doing drugs, hard drugs, and the yelling, fighting, beating. Even now that my mother is with a new man, it continues. They still do the hard drugs, cocaine, crack. My mother even made me start smoking weed, because she said it would make me loosen up a bit. If she only knew just how tightly I was wound at the time.

That’s when the cutting began. It started from me blaming myself. Thought I was the cause, so I repented, to believe that the sin was washed away. It wasn’t. It only got worse. I soon turned to glass. Glass, it was so ragged, so real. I wanted to believe that this was the way, the thing that I deserved. I wanted it, more, I needed it. It was a way of life by the time I turned to razors. I was addicted to the sound it made as it cleaved through my thin flesh, precision of the cut, the way the blood slid along the curves of my body. The fact that I am bi-sexual and have been diagnosed with OCD didn’t help. I was taunted continuously, because I wouldn’t hide my identity. OCD. Everything had to be perfect. I believe that’s why I was so mesmerized by the blades. The cuts were so perfect, beautiful.

I cannot stop this, I know, until it has run its course. Nobody can make you stop cutting yourself, except for yourself. You have to stop when you know it’s the time. Some don’t realize it in time, but for those I have no pity. I know they would not want it. Not from a person like me.

Don’t cut to fit in. That is my advice. Don’t do it because it looks cool, or you want attention. Don’t do it because your best friend is, or because it’s trendy. It’s not.

It’s like Pringles, you just can’t stop.


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