Cutting was my way of coping with my problems, it was my outlet. This allowed me to go through the day looking normal though it only lasted a while. When I first started I thought that it was one of the best things in the world and I was one of the few people who was allowed to experience this wonderful pleasure. It was like a breath of fresh air after being suffocated for such a long time. It was like the light at the end of the darkest tunnel. I thought that this was the answer to every problem. This was my way of fixing everything. I did it when I was sad, angry, scared, bored and even just for the plain old cut itself. This became my everything.
Life became just so unbearable that death was looking more and more beautiful to me. Cutting myself showed me that I had the power to create something. If I wanted to bleed I could make myself bleed and this gave me a sense of power. The scars left on my body were something special to me. It was a symbol that I could control something, I had complete control over something and I loved the idea of me having this power.
If I wanted to harm myself I could. I was physically able to harm myself but I never saw it as that. In my eyes I saw it as something so wonderful. I knew no one would ever agree with me so I knew that I must keep this part of myself a secret. I must tuck this so far away from anyone’s sight and understanding. I thought that everyone didn’t even deserve to know about something so great as this. Their simple minds would never understand how we could simply heal ourselves.
This would make me feel better. I saw those certain feelings as a poison that was running through my veins, making its way through my system and in order for me to survive it I had to cut it out of myself. Just like a person does after being bitten by a poisonous snake. One must open their skin and allow the infected blood to exit their body or they will die. I looked at it the same way, if I didn’t cut I simply was going to die.