Cowardice
Massive warning for self harm!!!!!
Thursday
Keep going. You have to keep going. You love doing this don't you? Don't lie to yourself. You know you love seeing the scars, the open wounds. Don't try to delude yourself by saying you don't. Give in. You should give in already. You already fucked up enough of your life. You know you will never amount to anything. So why fight it? Why not give in and become who you truly want to be.
I stare down at my thigh, watching the blood flow cleanly out of my wound. I felt nothing as I picked up the pencil sharpener, readying it in my right hand, preparing to cut once more.
You know you love the scars. Cut deeper next time, you coward. You want to get to the hypodermic level, don't you? Press down hard then. Stop pussying out. You are going to be doing this until your untimely death anyways, so who cares if you accidentally hit a vein? You might be able to bleed out and die! That would be a blessing, right? Press harder. Press harder onto the skin. Come on, press harder.
I hold the blade over my thigh, hovering over a spot that wasn't already cut open.
Press hard onto the skin. Get to beans. Get deeper. Your pathetic tiny scars are going to fade within a year. Don't you want them to last forever? Don't you want to be more pretty?
I don't even brace myself as I slice horizontally on my skin in one fluid motion. I spread apart the cut to see how it turned out and I only can sigh in disappointment.
You didn't go hard enough, did you? Pathetic bitch. You wish and wish and complain about how small your scars are, yet you can't even take the steps necessary to get there. That cut is pathetic. You could barely even call that a styro.
I ready my blade once more, going at my skin once more. I only get more and more disappointed as I go. It's never deep enough. It never will be. However, at least I will have some scars for a while.
I unroll a small bit of toilet paper, cleanly folding it so it's a thick square of toilet paper. I wipe away any of the blood running down my thigh, and then press the toilet paper onto my wounds, to help slow the blood flow. I did this in a practiced manner, as I've been doing this for over 2 years. This wasn't new to me and it never will.
I check that the blood has stopped to my satisfaction, and when it is, throw out now bloodied toilet paper away, covering it with some clean toilet paper so it's not completely noticeable. I screw the pencil sharpener blade into the pencil sharpener once more, making it seem like nothing happened. Nothing really happened after all. Nothing of importance.
Getting my pants on, I stare at my thigh, feeling both annoyance and contentment. I leave my bathroom, and hide my pencil sharpener in its usual spot in my bedroom.
Wimp. Coward. Another failed cutting session. You have tons of different blades, yet you can't get any deeper. Now what? You gonna complain about this to your little mentally ill social media account? No one cares on there anyways, so what's the point? You should just shut up entirely and give in to your inevitable downfall.
Friday
Too tired to cut? Lazy. You fail at everything. You fail at starving, you fail at socializing, you fail at being a good person, you fail at drawing, you fail at dating, what's next? Are you going to fail at living? You can't fail that anyways. You know deep down, that you are too much of a coward to go through with it. Coward. You are a complete coward.
Saturday
Today was a failure. Nothing was done today, you absolute lazy bitch. You didn't even leave your room except for going to the bathroom or eating. Come on, today is a perfect day to cut. Remember to take pictures!
I roll off my bed, grabbing my pencil sharpener on the way out. I head to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. It repeats once again. I cut, I look at it, I get disappointed with the result, resentment builds up, I cut again, and the cycle repeats. I don't even do it for the emotional value most of the time. I do it because I have nothing else to do and scars make me feel pretty. Don't I want to be pretty?
My mom knows, yet she does nothing. I'm fine with that. I can cut in peace then. I love cutting in visible places. I can get reactions from others. I love seeing peoples reactions. I don't care if they get "triggered" or "traumatized". That's too bad for them.
Today was another failed cutting session, huh? 2 years of experience and yet you haven't gotten better at all. How typical of you. You are such an attention seeker. You know people don't like seeing fresh scars, yet you do it anyways. What an absolutely horrible person you are. You never want to talk about your unhealthiness, yet you flaunt your cuts like the unstable and horrible person you are. You are a hypocrite.
Sunday
Tomorrow I have practice. My arms look too clean. Too untouched. I could do something about that… But will I? Do I have the energy? I'm never going to get to the depth I want. So what's the point. Oh, yeah. Scars. Scars that are barely noticeable. They barely make me pretty. Eh, I have blades so I might as well use them. I got nothing to do anyways.
Come on, you know how others can get so deep. You wish to be able to be like them. So actually try. You don't look at that stuff for no reason. So become them. Do it. Cut deeper. You'll never achieve anything but try anyways. You deserve to suffer. You always have. All you do is make other people's lives worse. You contribute nothing. I don't think anyone would ever notice if you disappeared. If anything, they would sigh a big sigh of relief that you are gone. You are nothing but a burden, you know that right?
Monday
Nights are terrifying for me. All I do is hate myself and beat myself up. I am such a fucking miserable thing. I don't deserve to even be considered a human. I am not worthy of such a title. I am absolute trash. My autism fucks everything up. My identity and mental baggage is far too much for anyone to handle. I am too much for anyone. I am unstable, unlovable. I fuck up all the time. What's the point of living if all I do is fuck up? I am going to be alone and unloved for the rest of my life. Why keep going? All I do is take up space. I hope no one mourns me at all, when I die. I will never make it past 20, I know that for sure. I should just die.
Reflecting
I don't know how I survived 2022-2025. I was terrible to myself. I beat myself up constantly. I hated myself to the very core. I didn't think I deserved to live, yet I survived. I didn't live. I just survived. I'm glad I did.
I was so unstable and unwell. I refused to get help and resisted any kind of support coming my way. I wanted to be noticed and helped, yet the moment help came, I pushed it away. I was comfortable being mentally unwell. I felt safe, constantly criticizing myself. How else was I supposed to be aware of my mistakes?
I only got worse when I was in my first relationship. We met from the same side of the internet. The unwell side of the internet. I was desperate for a relationship. I wanted to be proven that I was loveable. I wanted to see how it was, being loved.
I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. Two mentally ill individuals, both self harming and both resisting any help. Dating would only amplify things. We both had a desire to get worse. To fall into a spiral of self harm and depression.
It was not a good relationship for the both of us. I ended up being the one to affirm, to say that I did really love him, that I didn't hate him, that he had a future. It was so draining. I had a pit in my stomach for months. Constantly checking my phone, making sure he was okay. Checking my texts before I sent them, so he wouldn't think I hated him. The moment he started texting me in Korean or Japanese, I would feel my heart drop. He either was upset, or high. And neither were good. Stress was at an all time high. I just wanted him to be happy.
When I finally woke up and managed to gather up the courage to break it off, I think it was in that moment, I realized I needed to get better. And sure, it hasn't been easy. I have relapsed here and there. However, I am doing so, so much better than I was a year ago. A year ago, I would be cutting at my thighs in my bathroom. I've grown and healed more than I ever expected. I just needed a little bit more faith in myself and my fiancé yelling at me (multiple times), to get better.
I, like usual, had rejected his attempts to help me. I hated the idea of get better. I never realized how much I hated it. I was so resistant to his help. I just wanted to go back into my little hole of depression and stay there. It wasn't anything new. I felt safe. I felt comfortable being uncomfortable. Being healthy was completely new territory. I was terrified. I was so so terrified.
I am glad that, in the end, I accepted my fiancés' help. I feel actually well, free, happy and more stable. I think also getting on antidepressants helped. I was raw-dogging the previous years. No therapy, no medication, no nothing. I'm still surprised that I survived as much as I did. I had never realized the full extent of my self-hatred.
Healing really does feel better. I know I still got more to go, in my journey, but at least I can actually live. I can breathe. I can accept myself. I still struggle with a couple things, of course. However, I can see my improvement. I've come such a long way from who I used to be.
Comments
Post a Comment