Good morning. Let's talk about breakfast... Razor blades or scissors?

I find myself in this constant spiral full of holes, of little tiny spaces through which my mind escapes to find a way to get some of my blood escaping out onto my already-scarred skin. It is not a remedy. It isn't a sickness no more than any other addiction. I've gone today without it, even though I'm constantly reminded of it from the glares I get if I walk around in a t-shirt. I have a broken body, a broken mind and (trying not to sound too cliché here) a somewhat broken heart that, even though it beats, likes to make its way into my limbs and have me ache for something sharp. I suppose life would be too simple if our heads didn't create problems, or sicknesses, or images that, once out-and-about in the world, count you out from within the living population of sane people.

Let me get it straight that, no, I am not one of those wrist-cutters portrayed in shitty teenage movies where I listen to down-too-low melancholic music while working my knife to the beat of it. Even though I respect the media putting a bit of reality to images of peoples lives by actually putting in that picture or scene where someone cuts her/himself (preferably in the bath or in somewhere else water-y to make it more oh-so-sad) I highly doubt it'll give our generation a good image of solving your problems. I am not an entity of self-created problems. All my problems (well, most of those) are inflicted on me by other people. I've been in a boiling kettle that I cannot yet call hell for the past four years, my sister's bulimirexia (anorexia plus bulimia) putting that last bit of pressure on the switch that turns it to hell.

Gloriously enough I have been through hospital and police investigations and a youth home and feel more like I'm eighty years old than soon-to-be eighteen. I would like the world to simply understand that if you self harm it does not make you sick, it does not give you a golden ticket to a hospital ward (youth psychiatry, been there, done that), it does not mean you are just counting the lines you've drawn on your wrist until you have enough of them to die, and most of all, it does not mean you feel sorry for yourself. Though it sounds the least painful, the last on my list has hurt me the most. People saying I do this because I am sorry for myself, because I want to wallow in pity and get sympathy. People, if I wanted to be an attention-whore, damnit, I would be one.

I guess my late-in-the-evening rant might be a bit too much for anyone's eyes except for my own but, being a self harmer, and being the friend of others with my addiction/problem, I like getting some reality onto peoples plates. Everything isn't what they seem. I gave up long ago on wearing long sleeves or dark, long pants because of my cuts. I'll let you see them. This is me. I'm still beautiful inside even though my body is wrecked from the outmost layer. You can have your kids avert their eyes. You can avert your eyes. But here I am, with or without my razor, coping, living and dying, and I know for a fact that I am not the only one. It could be your daughter putting apart one of your razors to get the blades out, it could be your son running steaming hot tap water on their arms, it could be your best friend burning themselves or punching themselves... Remember... Don't always accept it as a good excuse that it was the cat.

Sweet dreams.

Do you think unicorns are monsters?

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