Pressing the silver, angry blade across my skin until the blood that rushes through my veins is revealed. My porcelain white skin is stained with a deep red, and tears are flowing down my face.
Nobody would ever picture me to be so unhappy that I would reach such a dark place. But enduring the cruel names he called me, and having a low self-worth to begin with, one day I snapped.
Wishing the pain away wasn’t enough. I then turned to a dangerous coping method that would continue for four treacherous years. Constantly hiding my wounds, ignoring the furious sting of my self-inflicted gashes, and putting up an act of fake laughter and plastic smiles.
The burn of the blade was indescribable, it made me feel alive and it helped me catch my breath.
At first I would feel butterflies in my stomach fluttering when I went to grab my razor blade. But through all the tears I would manage to drag the sharp tool across my skin until blood flowed out of me like paint dripping onto a canvas. The tears would slow down and my internal pain would ease with every line I carved. I would feel emotionally drained.
Knowing the great danger and risk I was putting myself in, I still continued to cut for years. It became a routine to me. Every little thing would trigger such an extreme emotion, and I would dash to my room to make myself feel “better”. The butterflies were gone, and it was as if I had died inside. The only emotions I felt anymore were anger and sadness, and the only way to make my pain go away was to cut myself. Not only did blood drain from my body, but every ounce of unhappiness seemed to vanish. I was in love with the razor blade, and the danger of my addiction didn’t scare me.
I’ve been free of my addiction for one year now, and I’m not going to lie and say it has been easy. I found the help of a therapist, and threw away all of my blades. At times there is still an urge to slice the pain away, but I have now realized that writing can have the same effect. Pouring my emotions onto a page is much more satisfying then letting my emotions literally pour out of my body and leaving angry gashes on my skin. The scars remind me of how much strength I’ve gained, and that I can walk through Hell and back, and still triumph in the end.