Just when I thought I had this whole cutting situation under control depression comes back to bite me in the ass. He doesn’t come alone, he brings the heart and soul of my pain… Self-mutilation. I sit here writing and wear 9 new cuts on my arm left arm. Though only 3 are deep and may leave a constant reminder. All 9 will forever be burned into my memory.
The strangest thing about all this is that the biggest secret in my life was this. These cuts, these scars, this pain and this fear. But, this time it’s different. It’s not this huge secret anymore. People know and though this frightens me so it’s for the best. Simply because these people care and they are very dear to me.
I need more than anything to beat this sickness. This reoccurring depression that haunts me has followed me for years. The problem is it becomes a part of you and in some strange way I fear losing the writer in me. For I believe the two are intertwined, the writer and the self-mutilator are one.
To have so many people care for me scares me. I never felt that before and I never want to go back to that alone feeling again. So disappointing these people is not an option. These dear people I want to keep very close to my heart.