Copyright, Wendy

I slowly placed the razorblade to my wrist, and began to cut. I didn’t think about if it would hurt, or how much I would bleed. Or even how many people would notice and care. The cut didn’t look any different than a cat scratch, or a paper cut. I was cutting because I didn’t have any way to deal with all the pain and suffering that I had been going through. That and I didn’t feel as if I was alive. So being able to cut myself and see the blood and feel the sharp quick moments of pain I knew that I was alive and this whole charade was not just a dream. Soon I was addicted to cutting. I was getting treatment for it, but no one except for a few friends and my sister knew that I was still cutting. School is almost out and I have made at least a total of 230 cutts on my body from a razorblade. I was up to cutting seven or eight times a day because my mom was drinking so much. Most of my upper left arm is full of scars. And after school is out I plan to have myself hospitalized because I cannot stop my cutting. Wish me luck, I know I’m going to need it.


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