Question

Everybody hurts. But not everybody bleeds. It takes a certain desperation to bring a blade to one’s skin, to press down and drag. It takes a bone-deep hurt for a person to want to rip their skin apart, in order to feel. Feel better, nothing, something. Anything to feel. It takes a twisted, broken, hurting mentality to hurt oneself and to feel good about it. It takes my mentality. Cutting is an addiction. My addiction. For four years I cut to cope, to feel something, to stop feeling. Any reason was a good reason. There is a voice in my head, whispering, clawing at my mind, trying to pull me under and drown me until I give in. Again. And again. And again. It is my voice. A part of my broken mind craves the pain. Sometimes it whispers. “‘It’s okay. It will make you feel better,’” comes the soft caress. Sometimes it screams. ‘Don’t you get it?! You didn’t do it right! It’s not good enough! You’re not good enough!’ But at cutting, I am good enough. There is no right or wrong. No grade, no pressure to succeed. In my mind, it works. Once I cut I don’t feel bad or maybe I feel good, relaxed even. Seeing the blade skate across my arm or my wrist and seeing the first few drops of blood well up- red as leaves in the fall- that is relaxing. Bleeding is something I know. It is something I can control. It is something I can do.
8 months ago
Pleasing people. Helping people. For me, these two characteristic make up who I am. When I can’t make people proud of me I feel awful, but when I can’t help them the sense of failure claws at my belly, making my stomach churn. All I want is to help people. So why can’t I do even that? It’s the worst with my own family, which is what I’m most disappointed in myself about. My parents always fight and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Nothing I can do to make my mom stop yelling at my dad when the sky is black and my sisters and I are in our rooms, out of sight but nowhere near out of earshot. Their voices pound up the stairs and through the closed doors of my room, jumping over the music that is blasting in a desperate attempt to drown them out. So I sit there. On my bed with my eyes clenched tightly shut, wanting to hear anything but this again. Night after night, there are two conversations. The one between my parents and the one slicing through my skull. “‘This is your fault. It’s all your fault. All of it. And there’s nothing you can do about it. All your fault,’” comes the whisper, somehow louder than any screaming match.

Answer 1

Yeah this ain't it 😭😭

Answer 2

But you also don't gotta be a Pie bag jus keep ur comments to urself : )

Answer 3

not the way u say it Noah.

Answer 4

No Noah its just you.

Answer 5

Okay well ik I do but gd hush