Categories > Original > Drama > Well...
Well, I wanted to tell you my story. I did, but, I’m too stupid to remember the first time I hurt myself. Or the first time I cut. So, here’s the next best thing: my last relapse.
It was the fourteenth of December 2011, and it was my younger brother’s birthday. To everybody else, whether it was at school or at home, everything seemed fine. It seemed like normal, happy fourteen year-old me having a laugh with my brother at home, or sitting alone reading at school.
But, it wasn’t.
I couldn’t stop thinking about hurting myself. All day, through school, I sat, ignored by my so called friends, using a book to hide my tears and shield me from the rest of the world. I hated myself.
And that night, I hated myself even more. I destroyed 13 months of hard work. I went insane, making shallow cuts on my lower arms, slightly deeper ones on my upper arms, a few even deeper ones on my lower legs, and even deeper ones on my thighs.
I lost control.
But, I still knew I hadn’t caused any real damage, so I shrugged it off and thought I wouldn’t do it again.
That lasted two days.
And after that, it continued until the February half term of 2012, where I stopped for ten days until I went back to school. School was too much for me to cope with, and from there, I got progressively worse. I gave up of a few days at a time, but each and every single motherfucking time I went back to hurting myself.
I finally realised I had to stop in around May, but some things happened, and that didn’t go according to plan. I’m missing out a few things here, but that’s because it’s better if you don’t know.
The last time I hurt myself was the third of July, which means that, as of today, I haven’t cut for 8 months. And that number still doesn’t seem real. I don’t think I’ve stopped forever; I’m still fairly convinced that I’ll relapse. But I’m trying my best.
And that’s the most I can do.
It was the fourteenth of December 2011, and it was my younger brother’s birthday. To everybody else, whether it was at school or at home, everything seemed fine. It seemed like normal, happy fourteen year-old me having a laugh with my brother at home, or sitting alone reading at school.
But, it wasn’t.
I couldn’t stop thinking about hurting myself. All day, through school, I sat, ignored by my so called friends, using a book to hide my tears and shield me from the rest of the world. I hated myself.
And that night, I hated myself even more. I destroyed 13 months of hard work. I went insane, making shallow cuts on my lower arms, slightly deeper ones on my upper arms, a few even deeper ones on my lower legs, and even deeper ones on my thighs.
I lost control.
But, I still knew I hadn’t caused any real damage, so I shrugged it off and thought I wouldn’t do it again.
That lasted two days.
And after that, it continued until the February half term of 2012, where I stopped for ten days until I went back to school. School was too much for me to cope with, and from there, I got progressively worse. I gave up of a few days at a time, but each and every single motherfucking time I went back to hurting myself.
I finally realised I had to stop in around May, but some things happened, and that didn’t go according to plan. I’m missing out a few things here, but that’s because it’s better if you don’t know.
The last time I hurt myself was the third of July, which means that, as of today, I haven’t cut for 8 months. And that number still doesn’t seem real. I don’t think I’ve stopped forever; I’m still fairly convinced that I’ll relapse. But I’m trying my best.
And that’s the most I can do.
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