FicWad

I could blame the people around me. The conflicting world around me. But I know that I am the one to blame. It’s my decision, my vice, my problem to deal with. I’m actually quite disappointed in myself. Yes, for actually doing it, but more for tricking people into believing I’m something I’m not. I act all secure on the outside, put on my goodie two shoes act, my Christian layer. But deep down I’m just barely keeping it together. If only they knew. The thing that really gets me is that nobody seems to even suspect it. They can’t see through the façade I put on. Not my closest friends, not my teachers, not my counsellors, not even my mom. You know my secret? I wear something on my wrist and a brave mask on my face. They cover up the scars and insecurity pretty well. I suppose it’s best that nobody knows; they wouldn’t understand. The only people that really understand are the ones that do it as well. And if you look at the group I hang with you’ll realize that there’s not many people around me like that. Most people that lack understanding think that cutting is just a way to redirect the pain. Turning the emotional into physical. It doesn’t work like that. It starts out as a way to punish yourself, in a way. You get mad, angry, often at yourself, and, instead of taking it out on others or inanimate objects like most people, you take it out on yourself. Then it turns into an addiction. That’s another thing people don’t get. The way your body starts to crave the pain. The adrenaline rush that shortly follows. And, though it may sound creepy, the taste of blood when you suck on the wound to stop the bleeding, effectively avoiding a band-aid. It has become my own personal drug. I wake up and, if I have time, cut and give myself my morning fix. When I’m at school I practically go into withdrawal. All I can think about is that knife waiting for me at home. I crave that pain, that adrenaline, that blood. I get home and guess what I do? I don’t fight the craving, I embrace it. As soon as I walk in the door I run to my room and grab that knife. It always feels so familiar, so natural, so comfortable in my hand. I remove the accessory covering the wound and place the knife against the cut. By the way, I always cut in the same spot. Less scars, less to cover up. My heart races in anticipation waiting for that tinge of pain, waiting for the blood to seep from the newly opened wound. Then I put pressure on the knife and slide it across the previously made wound, feeling the blade tug at my skin. Often enough the first slice isn’t deep enough to draw blood so I do it again. Then crimson blood starts leaking from the new lesion and adrenaline rushes through my veins. I suck the blood away then put the cover back over the wound. But as soon as the adrenaline fades guilt takes over. This inner conflict effects my conscience like a parasite, marring my life. It took me quite a while to admit that I even have a problem. And now that I know I do I know I should stop. But it’s just too good. Too…addicting. I look at the death and destruction around me. The innocent people being killed in genocides, wars and holocausts. They don’t have a choice whether they get hurt or not and here I am hurting myself when I do have a choice. I know I should stop…