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LM

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Copyright, LM

I started cutting when I was 12, maybe right before I was 13… anyhow, I started with about ten slices high on my thigh every day some weeks and every other day other weeks. Then in 1999 my habit got worse. It escalated to maybe 20 on a good day to 50 on a worse day. That lasted every day until 2001. It slowed down again in 2002 and stopped altogether for 8 months. Then christmas 2002, it came back with a vengeance, and about 50 cuts everyday.

But now im trying to quit for real. I haven’t cut in 23 days now. So… it’s killing me. I’ve said this and I’ll say it again, cutting is like my safety net only made of straight razors. And I need to do it. Need to. I think about it every day all day long. When I’m alone with my boyfriend (who’s really caring and understanding about my problem), I cant even concentrate entirely on our time alone. All I can think of is how he must hate looking at my scars. I have over 1000 scars on my body from my own painful past. And it hurts me even more to think that I hurt him when he looks at me and the notched timeline of my life right there on my legs and belly. I’m going to a counselor but I don’t feel better. I worry that I overdramatize it in my head. I worry that the love of my life, the man I will marry in the next two years, will leave me because my pain scares him. I hate my weakness and I hate my hurt. I just want to slice open my stomach and heal myself with my own hot blood and afflict the ones who look down on my brokenness, and I want to take my pain and show the world the monster I’ve become. The monster who sees the world through the film of never quite dry blood and never quite whole skin. I want to heal the wounds but leave the scars so that I will never forget that I was where I was for so long. But right now, more than anything, I want my razor back. I want a pint of blood to flow out of me in absolution for whatever I did wrong to deserve the things that have happened. I want my blood on my own hands. I don’t think I’ll ever get better.

 

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