I should probably start by introducing myself, I'm Jo.
My life has not been particularly 'ideal' as one would say... I've been a silent sufferer of mental illness for years. My friends never knew until last year, when I came out about it all, and my parents just blow it off as if it isn't there, I don't think they can handle the fact that both of their children suffer.
The first time I self-harmed, was probably around about two or three years ago now. I've never been proud of it. I have glasses, so in case it's needed I keep a small screwdriver in my pocket at all times, one side of this screwdriver is a flathead and the other side a Philips' head. I took the tiny metallic screwdriver and dragged the flat headed side along the side of my forearm. It hurt, sure, but it didn't draw blood. That continued for a while until I discovered that the screwdriver was small enough to remove pencil sharpener blades.
I had always had a fascination with the stars, so I made star shapes on my thighs. I called them my constellations, rather than my cuts or scars, and to this day I still do.
One day in class--being at a school with a uniform--my school sport shorts rode a little too high and one of my friends noticed my constellations. She looked at me like she'd seen a ghost. And to be completely honest it was almost as if she had.
I was not in my own body, I didn't feel like I had my feet on the ground. I felt like I was already dead. My friend watched me throw my blades in the lake near our houses that same afternoon. I was clean.
Until I found another pencil sharpener. With ease, I removed the blade, just like I had the previous time and I slid it across my skin, over and over, deeper and deeper. One day I even wrote a suicide note. I still have it. In a shoebox that I don't dare to open. Numerous times I'd send messages to my friends that knew about my mental state, they'd comfort me, but only one knew the whole truth.
The other--my male best friend--didn't know about my 'constellations'. I told him one day. He laughed and said I was the second coming of the girl that ruined both of our lives. The girl that found joy in our misery. The girl that got B's on her assignments, only because I did them. The girl that threw me under the bus, time after time. That doesn't bother me, though. The thing that bothers me is that even after knowing the truth he'd turn around and joke about self harm.
I told him he was taking things too far. He understood.
It didn't stop me, though. The last time I cut was yesterday. I made one long line on the outer side of my upper left arm. Before that, it was a few lines on my thigh roughly four days ago.
I don't know how to stop. I want to, I want to stop more than anything in this world. I hate the thought of cutting too deep. But I don't hate the idea of being among the stars.
After all, when an artist dies, God lets them paint the sky... And I'm an artist. I paint. But I'm also a different kind of artist, a blade being my brush and my skin being my canvas.
I go to the school counselor every week. It doesn't help.
I need help.
