Self harm. It's a very broad topic, trust me. I know. But I also know a few things about it that can only come from doing it. Like the big one; it feels amazing. It does. But it takes practice. (This whole thing is going to to be like that last sentence so if you didn't like that sentence you should leave now.) Like it takes time before you find the perfect thing to do it with or the perfect area. I know this from personal experience. I have cut on and off since 5th grade. I got turned down by a girl I really liked and so I went in a corner and scratched at my wrist on and off for probably 3 hours until I was left with cuts that were lightly bleeding and kinda hurt, but felt amazing. I kept cutting from then on. And I mean I cut. I cut on my wrists, hands, arms(only lower), calves, thighs, stomach, I even tried my back once(whipped myself with a homemade whip made out of rope and pieces of glass). So I know know how it feels. The feeling of that first little slice in your skin. The feeling it sends through your body. The warmth you get when The blood starts running down your arm. It's amazing. I have yet to experience it myself, but I'm told that its a lot like sex. I don't know how but that's just why I've been told by a few people. But I also know how it is when you find the "g-spot" if you will. You see I've cut everywhere but I'd never cut on my upper arm until probably the end of my 7th grade year. And it was better than anything of ever felt before. It felt better than cutting on my thighs or wrists. It just felt so heavenly. And I did it with a pair of scissors during art class. It was Te best thing I'd ever felt. I went home and did it again. And again. And again. And then I stopped for probably a month to let them heal. And then I started again. You see I got to a point where I didn't have to be upset to cut. I just cut. It was a normal routine. And I never told anyone. I kept it to myself. But I did it all the time. I mean I always had a bandaid on on some part of my body because I cut so much. And I got to a point where I wasn't even thinking about it anymore. It didn't hurt as much. It didn't give me the same feeling as before. So I changed my cutting utensil. I started using a pocket knife. I'd go to my room. Just run it through a few times. And then lay in bed and smile. I was obsessed. Cutting was, and is, my heroine. It's my drug of choice. Then the knife stopped working. So I upgraded. I got an actual box cutter blade. That was it. I was done. Nothing could stop me. I could cut and get the same feeling with less blood. It was amazing. Then I had a friend, Sam. We were friends through our parents. He was about my age at the time. He found out what I was doing. He walked on on me with my blade. He sat down next to me as I cried. He asked me why I was doing it. I told him that he wouldn't understand. And then he lifted his sleeve. And showed me his scars. Not cuts. Scars. They were old. He said "try me." I explained everything. The start to that point. He just nodded. We sat in silence for probably 25 minutes until he finally asked for my blade. I gave it to him. He put in his pocket and looked at me and just said "please don't do it again." And so I stopped. I didn't cut again and was actually doing pretty good. Sam had ended up moving to Oklahoma or something I don't know. But I remember my mom sitting me down in my kitchen one day. And telling me that Sam killed himself. I was devastated.He had written me a personal note that he had asked no one else to see. In it he explained everything he'd been going through. He had decided one day that he was bisexual and tried to come out to some friends and was bullied. He got the nickname "Sammy" for some reason. I guess the kids thought they were clever or something. But at the end of the note he brought up the day that he took my blade. And he wrote that he still didn't want me cutting. I didn't listen. I ripped up his note and went I my room and cut everywhere. Legs, arms, stomach. Everywhere I could. I was ready to go. That night I snuck down stair to my medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of my moms pills. It had probably 30 pills in it. I didn't know what it was. I took 8. I was ready to go. I was killing myself. I passed out. I fell literally to the floor. Only to wake up in my bed. The pills I'd taken, I later found our, were sleeping pills. And they were low enough dosage to where it didn't kill me. I was devastated. So I went back to cutting. I went back to not caring. Not feeling. I felt nothing when I cut. Only happiness. I would only be happy when I cut. Then I found out something that would change my life forever. I really liked girls. I mean I really really liked girls. Like any time I got into a girl, I stopped cutting. So I found my rehab. I stopped for a bit. Until I got turned down again. And again. And again. I found a new reason to cut. Do you see it now? Once you start, once you do it once with good reason. It's your go to for everything. Stressed? Cut. Upset? Cut. Got turned down? Cut. Happy? Cut. Bored? Cut. You get into a rut where all you err want to do is cut. Just so you can feel the pleasantness of the pain and happiness. The warmth of the blood. I don't know why I'm writing this and now posting it on here but I just was bored and I'm currently 2 weeks clean from cutting so I didn't want to cut so I wrote. Which in case anyone wants I know, that's when I write a lot of my stuff. So I don't know if anyone will actually read all of it, but if you read it all and you're reading this now. Please rate and leave a comment maybe. I like hearing from followers.
