When your going thru hell... it's best to just keep on going...
You might imagine that a person would resort to self-mutilation only under extremes of duress, but once I'd crossed that line the first time, taken that fateful step off the precipice, then almost any reason was a good enough reason, almost any provocation enough. Cutting was my all-purpose solution. My scars ought to be a charm bracelet of mnemonics, each a permanent reminder of its precipitating event, but maybe the most disturbing thing I can say about the history of my cutting is that for the most part I can't even remember the when's and the whys behind those wounds. It didn't take much to make me cut. Frustration, humiliation, insecurity, guilt, remorse, loneliness... I cut 'em all out. They were like a poison, caustic and destructive, as though lye had been siphoned into my veins. The only way I could survive them, I thought, was to keep draining them from my blood.
Sometimes I feel like nobody has held me down and forced me to cry or made me hug them, or seen to the inside of me. I just say 'oh I'm fine' and walk away. Nobody's ever said to me 'no you're not'.
Do you ever get that feeling where you don't want to talk to anybody? You don't want to smile and you don't want to fake being happy. But at the same time you don't know exactly what's wrong either. There isn't a way to explain it to someone who doesn't already understand. If you could want anything in the world it would be to be alone. People have stopped being comforting and being along never was. At least when you're alone no one will constantly ask you what is wrong and there isn't anyone who won't take 'I don't know' for an answer. You feel the way you do just because. You hope the feeling will pass soon and that you will be able to be yourself again, but until then all you can do is wait.
The sky isn't always blue. The sun doesn't always shine. So it's okay to fall apart sometimes.
Pain is your friend, it tells you when you're seriously injured, it keeps you awake and angry but the best thing about it is it lets you know that you're alive.
I have no clue why I do what I do. It feels good to have cold metal press against my skin as my problems tear at my soul. The blood drips softly and I cry silently. No one will ever understand me except for other people like me.
One of the worst feelings in the world is loneliness. Sitting in the dark by yourself in the wee hours of the night gently crying. Nobody knows what's going on with you. How could anybody realize what's happening? Everybody you know is resting peacefully in their bed awaiting the new day tomorrow. But for you, there's no difference in the days. They pass monotonously. And before you know it, it's all gone.
The apple fall far from the tree she's rotten and so beautiful I'd like to keep her here with me and tell her that she's beautiful she takes the pills to fall asleep and dreams that she's invisible tormented dreams she stays awake recalls when she was capable...
Depression is merely anger minus the enthusiasm.
We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?
I did not, you see, want to kill myself. Not at that time, anyway. But I wanted to know that if need be, if the desperation got so terribly bad, I could inflict harm on my body. And I could. Knowing this gave me a sense of peace and power, so I started cutting up my legs all the time. Hiding the scars from my mother became a sport of its own. I collected razor blades, I bought a Swiss Army knife, I became fascinated with different kinds of sharp edges and the different cutting sensations they produced. I tried out different shapes - squares, triangles, pentagons, even an awkwardly carved heart, with a stab wound at its center, wanting to see if it hurt the way a real broken heart could hurt. I was amazed and pleased to find that it didn't.