This is for the anon who made the first cut. Who decided to take a blade to their skin.
These are my thighs, this is my arm. I have more scars and cuts on my upper arms and lower legs.
This is what you will look like if you cut again. Because it is addicting, and you will fall as hard as the rest of us.
The first cut I made was very shallow. Barely bled. I didn’t make more than two that day.
When I tried again, I thought I could control it, that I could keep it contained, as long as it helped me not hurt so much inside.
I read stories of people battling this addiction, begging others not to do it, but I thought I was stronger than them. I’m not. Nobody is.
Seeing the blood and feeling the sting is so madly addicting. The endorphins. The relief.
The cuts slowly go from once a week to every few days. Then every day. And suddenly you cut morning, afternoon and evening and your thoughts are consumed by how badly you miss the feeling, how much you need to cut to breathe. Most of the time, you’re not even sad. You just need it.
You want it.
Now, consider this.
You’ve cut, gotten into it for a while now. Let’s say six months. You’re properly addicted now. The scars piled up, you couldn’t keep it in one area. You look like me.
You go shopping. You might once have loved shopping, maybe you always hated it, but you don’t like it anymore. Maybe it’s summer and you’re sweating in your hoodies and jackets and cardigans. You spot an adorable dress, white with flowers and ruffles and straps and you pick it up, feeling the fabric. It’s perfect. You know that that dress and a vest you own would go really well together.
But you can’t show your arms, because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done to them; what the addiction has done to you.
So you hang the dress back in place.
Maybe, if you’re male or don’t like dresses, you found a shirt. But when you put it on it goes too far up your arm. So you put that back too, and you look for more cardigans and long sleeved things.
One morning it’s warm outside. You always loved swimming. You used to when you were little, but perhaps you lost confidence in yourself and you haven’t worn a bathing suit or a bikini in years.
But you want to swim. Who cares if you have a bit of flab some places? It’s Summer!
But wait… You can’t. Because you carved cities into your thighs, you wrote death on your legs in your own blood.
So you just daydream of how the water used to feel in your hair. Because you can’t get yourself to show your body.
Simpler things, your parents ask you to help with the dishes and you have to focus on keeping your sleeves down. You take off your jacket and you’re paranoid your cardigan reveals the angry red marks on your shoulders.
You panic when someone knocks and wakes you in the morning, because what if your cuts show?
You lose any confidence you ever managed to get, because you’re so scared and awfully addicted.
When I showed my mother my arms, she called me “my daughter, my birch tree”, because birch trees have so many discolored marks on the white bark. Imagine how sad that made me.
I can’t imagine anyone ever loving me enough to see past my scars.
You will be ruined and broken from this addiction, and when you finally decide enough is enough and your path is recovery, you have enough stories on your skin to fill a library.
Please, I’m begging anyone considering this, anyone new to this and anyone old to this: stop, don’t do it. It’s not worth it.