Copyright, Sare-Uh

I don’t remember when I started. I do remember what I did. I used a safety pin and my arm. I then used pencils in school to scratch my arm till it bled. Then I moved on to using scissors to carve things into my legs. Then, I went to razors, going over the scissor cuts to make them definite. I cut both of my legs up on the front. There wasn’t a space of skin left. My mom ending up finding the bookbag in my room full of razors and blood soaked washcloths. It wasn’t until a week later she saw them. I was in my psychiatrist’s office, and he asked if I had been hurting myself. After a while, I ended up showing him and he made me show my mom.

Then I got sent to a short-term psychiatric hospital. I stayed there for about three weeks, and then my mom made the descision to put me in a residential treatment home. I was sent to Peninsula Village? on a rainy Wednesday 18th in June. Eight months later, I was discharged on February 16th.

I did good for a while. I really did. I kept my promise to everyone. I wasn’t going back. I wasn’t going to even look back. Then something happened. Something changed. And it feels like I’ve been sucked down the same hole again. Now here I start, an exact year later. In the same place. No one knows. And no one will. Because I’m too afraid to ask for help again. I’m supposed to be cured. I’m supposed to be better. I don’t want to hurt my mom. I don’t want to hurt my friends. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

Except myself.


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