People see me and they see my smile. They see the joy in my eyes. They hear the laughter in my voice. There is one thing they don't notice.. all these things are all part of one single thing, my mask. I've practiced for years, covering how I really feel. Hiding all of the pain that I feel and the troubles in my life. I'm not used to crying out for help. I don't even know how to ask for help any more. I was raised as if pain and hurt and mistakes make you worthless. So I can't have any of these. Due to being human, I have failed there. I am in pain and I do hurt and I have made tons of mistakes. Though I am not allowed to show that, I'm not allowed to express my pain. I have to hold it in and keep it from every one. There is always a side effect of holding things like that in. Every one who does that has their own side effect, mine was cutting.
All of that built up pain, anger, depression, loneliness, sadness, feeling worthless, feeling like a failure, and a mistake... I couldn't find a way to let it out. I have several friends who do or who have cut so I started asking questions. I figured people would get concerned and worried, start asking questions. A few did but I dismissed the questions saying I was just curious. But isn't that what gets us all? Curiosity? It sure got me. After asking around for about a week and still not finding another way to release all of the things going on inside of me, it came down to the first time I ever cut... I had been thinking seriously about it for a couple days. I thought to myself, I can control this, I won't let it get out of hand. People had told me that it was dangerous and addicting. They also said that it helps them, when nothing else did. To me it sounded like a much needed rescue.
It was a Monday, I stayed home from school 'sick'. I managed to convince my parents to let me stay at the house while they went for my moms' counseling session. A couple hours after they were gone I went to the bathroom and found a spare razor. I went to the kitchen and got a knife. I started cutting up the plastic surrounding the blades. When that didn't get them all out I used the handle and busted them open. I threw away the plastic pieces in the trash, making sure they were at the bottom under several things. I took the razors into my room and found a hiding place for them in my top dresser drawer. I put them all in there but one. I walked over to my bed with the one razor and sat down. For a while I just sat there and stared at it thinking, 'Can I really do this?' , 'Yes, you can control this. You can't control this pain and stress surrounding you.' I continued to convince myself of this. I had never seriously cut before but I knew if someone suspected me they would check my wrists so I cut on my lower hand, opposite side of my thumb so I wouldn't hit that vessel. I didn't put much pressure because honestly I was scared. I knew cutting could lead to accidental death and I didn't want to die, I wanted relief. The first night I cut twice, neither of which bled. The slight sting of the blade did bring me relief though. The next few days I was so upbeat, so happy. I actually had people asking me how I was feeling because just a few days ago I was at the breaking point and now I was so happy. A few friends were glad to see me so much better, they had no idea why I was doing so much better though. After cutting the first time it was like a high I had never reached, it felt amazing. So much better than the troubles I was going through.
The second night I cut wasn't because I came down from that high and felt all the pain waiting for me, it was purely because I was intrigued by how it felt. The slight pain dragged me in... So on that second night, they actually bled. I cut just a tiny bit deeper than before but not very much. Yes they bled but not even enough to create one drop of blood. I made several little tiny cuts that didn't bleed but I also made three or four deeper and larger cuts that bled a bit. After that night I didn't cut for a couple weeks. I realized I had a week and a half for the cuts to heal before I went to my dads.. I desperately didn't want him to know so I quit cutting and let the already made cuts heal. Eventually they healed enough to look like I fell and scraped my hand on concrete. Rough concrete but still. So on average I had around twenty small cuts that weren't deep enough to bleed and about five cuts that barely bled. That was all I had done. Soon I realized that I needed to quit, God had reached into my heart and helped me realize that. I went home that night (from church) and told my mom about it all. She was very sad and had a few questions. I then went into my room and got all of my razors, wrapped them in foil, and threw them away. My mom was there for me through the whole night. It may not sound like it but that was very hard for me to do because I had gotten very attached to the blades, I was already wrapped up in the addiction.
I went for about two and half months without cutting. Life had been hard but the two weeks before I cut again, things were finally turning around. I didn't have a good reason to cut really.. I believe that it was just the addiction part coming back. Craving that feeling again. I refused to get blades since I quit around December so I had nothing to 'get the job done' you might say. Though I realized my nails had grown out.. my left hand thumb nail was very long and thin for some reason, it worked perfectly. I pressed it into my lower right arm and would drag it across my arm over and over. I did that enough times that my arm had puffed up red marks that bled a tiny itty bitty bit. There are three large 'scratches' and two small ones. It's been a week since I did these cuts.. (today is Feb. 1st, 2014) The 'scratches' have turned into scars. I used to think they were beautiful and I craved more since the first ones had completely healed from view. Now.. I see them and feel ashamed. I regret ever doing that... Though when I get to that point of addiction or pain, I don't feel that way any more. I crave the marks again if I am in that much pain and then I feel ashamed of nothing and I don't regret the previous marks.
I know I need to quit so I'm trying but honestly the addiction makes that so hard... I have so many people that know I'm a christian using God or something religious to help me through this but honestly? I have been slipping from my faith... I don't really know why, maybe it's just all of the things that have been going on lately. Maybe it's just the age I'm at that has me changing so much. I don't doubt a single thing when it comes to God but I am not following him like I used to and I know that's wrong. The worst part is that I don't know if I want to follow God like I used to. Part of me enjoys living for me rather than for God. I hate that part of me so much...
