*** WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT ***
IF YOU FEEL THAT YOU MAY BE TRIGGERED OR HARMED IN ANY WAY OR IT IS AGAINST YOUR VALUES OR YOU MIGHT FIND IT ETHICALLY DISTURBING, PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED. I REPEAT, DO NOT. I HAVE NO INTENTION TO FREAK YOU OUT OR GIVE YOU ANY IDEAS.
You should know if you should not be here. If you made a promise to your friend not to read their blog, keep that promise. This is like an e-diary, please think of how you will feel if I were to snatch your diary and read whatever you wrote because you have no choice as it is open to public ( as this blog is ). Please note that this is the basic respect you should have for your friend because she trusts you NOT to read. Please do not visit this blog again, if you are such a friend and you have the above mentioned values ( trust and respect ) .
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From the day you chose to pick up the blade, you know it will never be the same again.
You start out with more "superficial" cuts at first, because you're unsure. You don't know what will happen. Will I bleed to death? Will I hit a vein? Questions like this pop in your head, and you take care not to cut too deep.
As you do it a few more times, gradually, you find that it's helping. It's helping you to cope - converting emotional pain to physical pain, where you can control - like how elastic potential energy is converted into heat energy and kinetic energy. Everything that's bottled out is released, and is let out in the form of that red solution vital to human life.
I am better now! You tell yourself. And you smile.
And gradually, you realize how much of a monster you are turning into. Your lips curl when you see the little beads of blood - you marvel at it's beauty. Now, that is beauty.
You realize, there is no going back. The scars that will always be there - People have scars. In all sorts of unexpected places. Like secret road maps of their personal histories. Diagrams of their old wounds. Most of our wounds heal, leaving nothing behind but a scar. But some of them don't. Some wounds we carry with us everywhere and though the cut's long gone, the pain still lingers. You will forever be reminded of those days, the times when you just simply don't feel good enough for this world. The times when you have to resort to means of pain to feel.
When I am gone
Do not stand beside my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circling flight;
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand beside my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
~Author Unknown
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This is a couple of days after you do it, when it begins to heal. The first moments when the cool, metal blade caresses your skin, you gonna have a bloody mess - it looks horrible. After I wipe off the blood and stuff with tissue, it looks way better. And after a day or so it'll look nothing more than scratches like that picture above of my yucky hand ^
 |
| yeah I have to admit it's pretty terrible |
Actually. I kind of admire and am frightened of myself at the same time. The lack of feeling during those moments - the numbness - however deep I cut, however much the wound - I don't feel a thing. Now looking back I shudder at how scary I am - I am such a monster to myself. I know I ain't liked, not even like myself. It's a surprise I did't ever cut till deep enough to die - I wouldn't have felt a thing either. In fact, now I struggle to look at the pictures I had taken of my then wrist. I feel scared, really - of what I am capable of doing to myself. Maybe they are right. I am a hazard to myself.
"Where are these scars from?" she asked.
"They're battle wounds," I replied.
She looked at me for a long time.
"Who were you battling?"
"Myself."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She said, looking at the lines lining my wrist.
"Because,"
I replied,
"I can hurt myself
but I can't hurt you."
.
.
.
