Water can’t clean these stains.

Copyright Diana

I am well aware that what I am doing is hurting everyone, but I wonder if people know or understand that what I am doing is killing me. It kills me to be hurting the ones I love and care for. The pain is simply undescribable, and it creates an itch below my skin which cannot be reached. The itch is simply intolerable, and it completely irritates me. It is unexpressible. I have formed this attachment to cutting, an attachment that simply cannot be broken. It is literally eating me up inside because a part of me wants to stop cutting, but it is so much easier said than done. I believe that anyone in my position would agree with that statement.

The past year has been stained with blood, and it is becoming so painful to fall. At any rate, I continue to slip and fall. Each and every time I slip I end up falling harder and harder without anyone s recognition. No one notices the bruises that I have sustained from falling; no one knows. No one knows what it is like to slip and fall everyday, and have to pull yourself back up just on time to fall again. I simply feel alone. I recognize that I am not alone in the physical sense because I have such a great amount of support, but I cannot help but feel alone emotionally. No one truly understands, and I find it safe to say that I doubt anyone ever will truly understand. I can t explain how it has come to be this way, and I can certainly not explain how it will end; anything is possible.

To be completely direct, I feel as if cutting is now apart of me. When a person like me becomes so deeply attached to something such as cutting, it is so very hard to let go. I have come to realize that I cannot fight this war alone, therefore if I have help I will have people that will join me in my battle and hopefully together we can conquer all the bad. I am finding it harder and harder to put my two feet on the ground. Every step I take builds upon the next that is to come, resulting in a more difficult step. In other words, I am finding it harder and harder to move forward therefore I have been standing in one spot for quite a while now. It may seem as if I am not trying, but truthfully I am trying my best. I am simply overwhelmed and completely consumed by my method of coping that I cannot imagine ever being without it. Even the sheer thought of losing something that means so much to me tears me up inside.

I am in this world; a world of my own. And in this world nothing that I do hurts me, it merely hurts all those around me and for this I hate myself. Do you even know what it is like to hate someone whom you are forced to be with day after day? Well, I do.

I am petrified because Death is climbing up the steps one by one and soon Death will give me the burnt rose; it will all be over.


Copyright Diana

I am a twenty-nine year old female. I have been cutting for about the last ten years. A few years before that I used to use control by having an eating disorder. I was raped at age fourteen. Then married at age eighteen. My husband at that time was abusive. I got pregnant and had three children. Went through a divorce and lost my children due to my ex-husband being abusive. I have since remarried and also have begun cutting intensely since. I have the control of cutting. I cut because of the way I look. I have gained weight so I feel if I cut I can control the way I look that way. Another reason I cut is for control. I do not feel that I have control in any other sitution in my life. I do not wish to show photographs as if my children happen to see this. I can control cutting where on my body to cut and it also allows me to feel. I have lost feelings in the last fifteen years of my life. May others who read this know they aren’t alone.


Copyright, Diana

My mother doesn’t like to face the fact that inside I’m suffering and that she helps to add to the scars that I carry around my body. A friend seems even less concerned when she asks of you to stop when she doesn’t even know of the limits that you’ve reached, and when she falls silent for days at a time and only returns your calls when she needs something, it makes you push the blade down even harder. My brother hit me with a wrench and my mother yelled at me for calling the police. She sat on the couch and looked at me with tears in her eyes, and asked why I was putting her through all of this shit. Why couldn’t I learn to just accept the fact that my brother was going through a phase?

I went upstairs and reached through my matress and to my arm brought the blade that I procured from an old razor, dragging it slightly but with impotent force to the flesh a little above my wrists. When I felt as if I had done my destructive duties, I removed the razor and to my agonizing astonishment I had cut too deep and where my intentions of where a small wound would be there on my arm was left the mark of a gash about 3/4 of an inch wide and muscle deep. For the first time I cried at the scars that I had left, and only uttered “oh shit” below my breath and sobbed and covered the wound with a small bathroom towel and then went to school, asked the teacher for a bandaid that wouldnt even cover my bleeding scab that probably needed stitches, and went along with my school day, as if nothing had ever happened…


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