•March 15, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It’s been fifteen months, two weeks.
But I still remember.
As clear as if it happened last night.
Everything that occurred.
Yes, I remember.

I remember the emptiness I felt,
And I remember the pain I created to fill the void.
I remember the light touch of a blade,
And I remember the sharp awakening it gave.
Oh yes, I remember.

I remember the drops trickling down my arms,
And I remember my skin opening wide.
I remember the beauty of the crimson,
And I remember the morbid joy it brought.
Certainly, I remember.

I remember the late nights I spent,
And I remember cleaning up the mess.
I remember the blood dripping down my chest,
And I remember the insanity it caused.
Oh God, do I remember.

I remember the demons on the walls,
And I remember the voices in my head.
I remember my visions of Death,
And I remember him taking my innocence.
How could I not remember?

I remember the prayers that I wept,
And I remember the friends who tried to help.
I remember the girl that I destroyed,
And I remember the price I had to pay.
I can never forget.



•January 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Allow me to preface this with one thing: This has a strong likelihood of turning into a melodramatic recounting and rant. Sorry.

I was roaming around youtube tonight, and I looked up the song The Way She Feels by Between the Trees. Multiple videos relating to self mutilation also popped up. I watched a couple, both of which hurt me to see but at the same time made me thankful for my healing. And then… I read the comments. I don’t really know why. I knew what was coming. But I did anyways.
As I predicted, trash talk about “emo” youth and “attention whores”.
Several incredibly long, and almost unbearably rude conversations tearing down people who cope with their emotions through self harm. I wanted to scream at them to shut the fuck up, they had no idea. But that’s… So pointless. So I didn’t. (Anyways, I can’t say too much in only 500 characters.) But it hurts to see things like that.
It was one of the reasons my depression deepened, and my problems got worse. Because of the people who assume that, if one “cutter” only does it for attention, everyone must do it for attention. I switched to the “invisible” parts of my body because of comments such as that. Only when I was completely out of my mind on drugs did I venture back to my arms, back to where it felt the best. (It’s where I still crave to cut. I can trace the lines where the razor should draw blood, even though I never give in to the urges. 13 months and counting.)
How can they say that? How can they look at self mutilators that draw that much blood, that cause that much pain, that cut that deep… and call them attention whores? It is not in the nature of an animal, which humans are in their deep seated instincts, to cause yourself that much pain. It takes discipline and will power. Someone seeking attention may scratch oh so lightly, barely drawing a few beads of blood, and then make a huge deal out of it. But someone truly in pain? No. We cut. We don’t just touch the surface… It isn’t enough. A razor does not hurt if you accidentally draw it across your skin. It takes effort to cause pain with a razor, and effort to cut at all with scissors and most knives. (Both of which, in my experience, cause pain as soon as you draw blood.)
We are not attention whores. Don’t you dare call us that. Those gashes in our arms, the deep scars left on our wrists, legs, abdomens… They are our method of coping. Our sanity, even though it is a lie… What we do is insane, though we refuse to admit it. If anything “dramatic”, they are a silent cry for help. But not for attention. We become masters at hiding the wounds. I went for three days without anyone seeing my suicide attempt. As I said, masters. Because we don’t want anyone to know. We don’t want to be thought of as “freaks”, “problem children”, “dramatic”, or “attention whores”. We want pain, not someone trying to stop us.
So please, if you are one of those people, who tear down cutters or anyone who self harms… Remember this. And, excuse my language, shut the fuck up. You have no idea.


•December 22, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The cravings are driving her mad.
The crawling sensation beneath her skin.
She can trace the path on her arm.
The path the blade would make.
Insanity is closing in on her “stable” mind.
It is a wonder her lip is not broken, with how hard she bites it.
Bruises arise from the bands she snaps against her skin.
Nothing works.
She will lose control.


•December 22, 2009 • Leave a Comment

They stung, she said.
She was in so much pain the next morning.
It hurt to sit, to breathe.
She showed me the incisions.
I smothered my fear.
I had to be strong for her.
She was the one in pain, not me.
I never knew what a danger she was.
She would not live much longer.


•December 22, 2009 • Leave a Comment

She lay topless on the floor.
Crimson lines formed twisted patterns on her torso.
Her mind was blurred, drugged, confused.
The razor glinted in the light.
Slashing, slicing, separating.
Minuscule beads of blood dotted her pale skin.
She cut into her stomach and hips, into the undesirable excess weight.
Attempting to destroy it, instead destroying herself.
Her chest became a grid of flayed skin.
Her abdomen a random collection of bloody stripes.
The scars would take months to fade.
Her mind would never heal.


•December 19, 2009 • 1 Comment

She gazed past me with those huge, lost eyes.
Seeing the memories playing behind her eyes.
She was so pulled together when she walked in, smiling and chatting.
And now tears slipped slowly, so slowly, down her cheeks.
“I don’t… I can’t… Why?”
Over and over again I heard those words.
I only had so many answers, so many explanations.
Some made no sense, just words to fill the void her confusion was progressively enlarging.
I saw the signs of her old ways, cracking through the layers of bandages they were hidden under.
Agitated, she rubbed her left forearm.
Clenched the fist, relaxed, clenched again.
Gripping the left wrist, where she had carved a death sentence that was never fulfilled.
She was right in thinking her years of hurt would never fade from memory.
She was a year clean now, a year without giving in to cravings, and she still desired, still needed.
Perhaps she was never meant to have peace.


•October 25, 2009 • 1 Comment

I could see her, crumpled on the floor of my mind.

Beads of blood leaving crimson streaks on her pale, ruined forearms.

My breaths came quicker, tension tightened the muscles of my back.

I could feel her pain.

The phone rang twice. Three times. Four…

She answered.

I asked what she was doing.

She knew what I meant.

She knew I knew.

She whispered an apology, said she couldn’t help it.

I knew then she was dying.

I wanted to call someone, anyone.

The ER, her parents, someone who could stop her.

Instead, I sat, and listened to her attempt to carve death into her arms.

Eventually, we hung up.

I left her, to finish by herself.

I abandoned her.

She sent me a final message, a goodbye.

I spent the night on my knees.

A message, before dawn.
She was alive.

In a pathetically literal sense, she was alive.

She was hospitalized a few days later.