I have been self harm free for a year....I can't believe I have made it this far. I hope that this can be inspiration for all of you who still self harm. You CAN stop. Anything is possible. Never lose hope... <3

This is a memoir I wrote for my english class:



Skin Deep Secrets

I walk into class with bags under my eyes. I avoid your stare, your concerned look. I wade through your lesson. I don’t want to look at you or meet your eye, because I know if I do, you’ll be able to tell. The bell rings and I sigh. I wince as you touch my arm and ask why. I don’t want to tell you, but I know you care. So I put away my fear and let you in.
I lie on the floor. I’m here again in this deep blue ocean of depression. What set me off this time? A fight, a failed test, a break up, or maybe just a hard day? It doesn’t matter now. I am too far drowned in my own sadness. It is dark here. Lonely. I feel as if I am falling apart. I shake and cry, trying desperately to rid my self of this demon that is eating away at my soul. My breathing is shaky, but I know the signs. I know what must be done. Don’t do it again! It doesn’t have to be this way, don’t screw up anymore. You know what they’ll say. They’ll call you emo and you’ll be even more alone then you are now. It is too late for me to talk myself out of this now. The tears burn my cheeks. All I can think about is the pain that I so need.
What will be my weapon of choice tonight? My arms and legs are full of burns, another one would be too hard to hide from you. I don’t have the strength to fight with myself, so bruising is out. There is nothing left to pierce that would be out of sight of your troubled glare. My only option: the knife. Yes, the knife will satisfy my sick needs tonight, like it has so many times, on nights just like this one.
Just thinking about cutting calms me. Maybe it will be enough to numb the pain. Not at all, the cool burning of depression, anxiety and fear, still torment me from the inside. I need the blade. I stand up, open my closet door, dig for the box and grab what I know is waiting inside. The cold sharpness of the blade fits into my palm like a key fits into a lock. I can’t stand this anymore. I need to feel the bitter sweet sting of the knife.
Slowly and carefully I lift up the sleeve of my shirt to reveal row after row of all my problems disguised as deep gashes that cover my upper arm. Some are red. Some are a purplish. On some, I can still see the dried blood from the last time. Others are pale lines of wounded flesh that will never go away. Each is a story, a memory. I study the scars and cuts every night, reminiscing on painful memories. That triggers more depressing thoughts. You are worthless. Look what you do to yourself. It is sick and wrong and because of this, you‘re worthless, stupid and ugly.
This is how it always starts. With negative self images and painful memories. They are powerful triggers for my disgusting little secret. It is a cycle. A repulsive, masochistic cycle consisting of bad thoughts, triggering memories, self harming, then more negative thoughts. Stop analyzing the situation and do what you need to before you go insane! My body is shaking more violently now, and I cannot take this exhausting mental pain. It is too much.
I choose a patch of skin were I can barely see any of the faded scars. This is a place I have not gone to before, my wrist where a large vein sticks out purple against my pale skin. Sure, I had cut and bruised and burned my wrist, but never so close to this scared spot, where one wrong slice could kill me. No, I do not put myself through all this to die. I do it to feel alive when I am numb or feel numb, when my feelings are too much alive.
Slowly, I pressed the blade to my soft flesh, pushing down very lightly at first. But as I dragged the blade across my wrist in perfect parallel lines, I put all the pressure my hand can provide into those cuts.
Instantly, all the mental pain I’ve been carrying around is converted into the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And I prefer this physical pain to the pain of the heartless depression.
One, two, three hours later, after I had been relived of all my pain and sadness, I fall into the soft cushions of my bed, breathing with a sigh of relief. The cutting has stopped, the tears have stopped, the blood is drying. But the battle against myself has been lost. I am worthless. I fall asleep feeling uneasy, but not as depressed.
I wake up in the morning feeling rather good, better then usual actually. Then I catch a glimpse of my arm. I touch the ridged, bloody slash that runs along my entire wrist and realize that I feel like shit and that gash, it is a wound of my own doing. I fight back tears of emotional and physical pain and try with all my strength to get out of bed. Maybe I should have just killed myself and escaped from this hell while I had the chance. But then I think of you and your kind words. It is enough to make me get me out of bed. I don’t even bother to do my hair or makeup this morning. I throw my hair up in a messy bun and toss a thick coat of eyeliner on. This look does well to reflect the way I am feeling. I make sure to do a careful job to clean my cut and cover it under a long black uniform oxford. But this routine is nothing new, it happens almost everyday.
So I walk into class with bags under my eyes. I avoid your stare, your concerned look. I wade through your lesson. I don’t want to look at you or meet your eye, because I know if I do, you’ll be able to tell. The bell rings and I sigh. I wince as you touch my arm and ask why. I don’t want to tell you, but I know you care. So I put away my fear and let you in. You look at me with eyes I know are hurt. In that moment I see that I need to stop and I see that you understand.