Copyright, Daz

I stopped cutting two and a half months ago. Up until then I had been self harming from early January of this year. The ‘tools’ that I used to inflict pain on myself included mostly knives, razors and scissors, and often sharp pieces of metal or metal wire and glass.

Why did I start? I don’t know. A different alternative. A way out. It helped me keep in touch with reality. But most importantly it took me away from reality, it allowed me to feel and become free for a short amount of time. I guess you could say I liked the fact that I could control something so dangerous.

Nothing bad has ever happened whilst I was cutting, no hospitalisations, no suicide attempts. It was just my little thing.

Phases → habits
habits → addictions
addictions → illness

So what do I do every day? I spend prolonged times of sleeping. I like sleeping. I isolate myself from people, from the few friends I have, from my distanced family. I like my cat though. He’s the only one who knows how I feel. We share things in common. Sleeping. I think I might have some kind of obsession with going to la la land.

It’s just my imagination I whisper to myself. I pretend I am not alive to this day. I hide. I cry. But I do not cut. Anymore. I don’t know why I stopped. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t want to hurt myself I just wanted to be gone. I wanted the real thing, not the sample. But I haven’t got enough guts.

My mother read my journal a few months back. Yelled at me for wanting to die. Didn’t do a thing. Oh well. Anyway I don’t know if this story is going off track or not, so moving on…

I believe I am a horrible person. I don’t know why. I don’t know a lot of things. I hate myself so freaking much. The last thing I cut on myself said ‘FAILURE’. Other things I’ve carved in but are unreadable anymore are: Ugly, bitch, fuck, I hate me. And countless gashes and slices all over my thighs, hips, ankles and arms.

What drove me to do this to myself is myself, my mind, my thoughts. I created them. I remember every hateful thing said against me. I store it in my mind, and I turn myself against myself.

I couldn’t handle much more one day at school, I ran out of class and sat in the girls toilets bawling my eyes out. My friends involved the school counsellor and I nearly told her to fuck off. I had a few sessions with her. Didn’t tell her much, she thought I’d stopped and so she stopped talking to me. Thank God.

I keep a burden inside of me. My past. I have only told less than five people. I hate telling anyone anything to do with my childhood. And I can’t even bring myself to let it out on here. But it’s not about letting stuff out here, it’s about a story.

Now I’m wondering if I will self harm again. It’s an option that’s there. Will I take it? Who knows, well I think that’s the end of my story, hardly made much sense, sorry.


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