There are so many cases regarding people finding out about cutters. For whatever reason they will see that cut but, I really want to know is it possible that maybe we want people to find out? Somewhere along the cutting spree do we mess up on purpose? Is this our way of asking for help?
I must ask myself did I want to keep my secret forever? Does any of us want to keep that secret or do we secretly wish for someone to see that cut, that one cut that will let us know that help is on the way.
Did I want people to find out about my cutting? Is it possible that I did mess up on purpose and that I wore cuts on certain places to have someone figure out my secret? Was that day that I put myself in the hospital an accident or a semi sub-conscious way of seeking help? Did I secretly want to stop cutting? If yes why after all is revealed was I still cutting myself?
Somewhere along the line I feel that maybe we do mess up on purpose and that we are forced to do something drastic in order to seek help. We are forced to go to the extreme simply because no one noticed how fucked up we are.
Depression. It’s a very familiar word for me. It is what has taken my life away, it has consumed about 75% of my life and 95% of my soul. Depression is returning and I am falling way too fast into the darkness and for once I think I know what’s pushed me into the dark wave. The thought of going back to the way things were, that feeling of alone.
I can’t and won’t feel that way again. I can no longer do it. I was stronger before. Day after day of being alone in my apartment, eating at the dinner table alone and spending many nights curled up crying on the bathroom floor cannot be apart of my post therapy days. I can’t handle that yet I can’t stop it. I can’t stop the panic attacks and I can’t stop myself from spiraling into this depression, I can’t possibly fall any deeper than where I am now.
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.
You were always there for me. Your job was to bring me back to reality and indeed you did. I feared for this day but it has come, the day when you can no longer fix me or cure my insanity. You can no longer help me pretend things are fine. I’ve finally realized that nothing is permanent.
In my life, nothing ever comes to stay for good. I would expect for things to leave when I was good and ready. I should be able to push the “unwanted” out of my life but, I don’t get that privilege.
No one seems to understand how much this pain’s me, how I hate having something I’ve grown attached to ripped from my fingers. I’ve grown to need you, I need you like the air I breathe into my lungs. I need you in order to survive the day and without you life will become impossible to bear.
I don’t understand how am I suppose to get through hard times without you. What am I suppose to do when I feel as if I can’t go on? You were the one who used to free me from these horrible feelings. I truly don’t know how will I survive without you. But I guess I’m forced to try.
I’ve always known that this day would come but, I feel that it has come to soon for I am not ready to let go.
I have read several books on people who cut themselves and every single one of them can’t seem to find the answer to that one question. Why Cut? Why choose to take a blade against your skin? Out of all the possible things you could choose to do to yourself why choose this?
They all have given a shot on trying to explain it, including myself. I honestly don’t know why I chose cutting as my outlet. I don’t know why that thought entered my mind at that moment; I don’t even know where I even heard of people doing that to themselves.
What I can tell you is that for some people (the ones from the books I’ve read) it just seemed to happen one day. Susanna Kaysen explained that she one day became a “wrist banger” and others like Callie just came home after losing a sporting event and just cut herself. That idea came from nowhere. She wasn’t even thinking. She was just acting upon certain feelings. As for Caroline Kettlewell she stated, “the idea and urge to cut seemed to arise from my very skin itself.” No one can seem to explain why or how that thought came about.
For most people it just seems to dissipate after a while. Dissolve almost; it leaves just as mysteriously as it came. In my case it no longer worked, it’s as simple as that. Cutting no longer removed the hurt. It stopped making me feel better.
I feel as if I am left with nothing, that I have no other choice. What is there left to do when cutting no longer works? You would think that something as drastic as cutting ones flesh would be enough but, surprisingly it was not. What is worse than taking a razor blade and opening your own flesh and allowing your blood to run free while getting satisfaction out of that. Who can possibly think of something worse.
You just fall into this place without any warning. The black wave has just taken you into this place and now that you have surfaced you see that your environment has changed. There is no longer any light. That beautiful light that once shone upon your soul has vanished.
This place is very dark, cold and frigid. You can barely see your hand in front of your face. You try your hardest to see what is right in front of you but you can’t, you are not allowed. It has become difficult to breathe. You take every breath with caution. You fear that this breath may be your last so you take it in and hold it. You hold this breath safe inside yourself and pray that you will make it till the next.
You ask yourself how did you get here? What have you done to the world for it to take away something so precious as your happiness. You realized that the ending to this horror story is your choice. Either be the cause of your death or live a slow and painful life.
In this place you have very few choices and opportunities. Nothing good ever visits this place, only sorrow, pain and despair. There is only a matter of time till you accept the fact that you belong here. Once you accept that fact you then settle into something the outsiders like to call depression.
The outsiders are the people you wish you could be, the people who pass by you everyday not knowing your dying, and the people who stop in once in a blue moon to appear as caring people. But you know better than to accept their pity, simply because it makes you weak. You don’t exchange any words with these people because they simply don’t deserve it. They see you as a completely different type of species. They feel that you don’t belong here and you shouldn’t be anywhere near their happiness. Simply because you will poison it with your darkness.