Copyright, Stefanie

When the world hated me just about as much as I hated myself I resorted to something I never thought I would become addicted to. Now three years later I fight every day not to do it. Medication takes it’s toll and sometimes I cut my ankles in fear of killing myself. I’m on 60mg of Prozac and still relief I do not find. I think every cutter remembers their first cut. I do. I was depressed, rejected by my friends, I felt nobody really even knew I was alive. I sat in my room crying for about three hours and I saw a pair of scissors. Impulse told me to pick them up and I did. The next thing I knew there was a row of cuts on my leg, bleeding. I felt better. Really at that point it was my survival method so everyday when I came home from school I would lock myself in my room and binge in my happiness I had found. Now three years later blood equals perfection, purity and represents something very clean to me. The scars on my ankles and thighs are too many to count and I was disappointed at the hospital’s knowledge on the subject. I don’t know if I will ever have a best friend like my razors but I’m trying to find it in the midst of screaming pain. One day I hope to help others with the addiction of self-mutilation. But for now I’m just trying to keep myself sane.


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