Watching my own blood run down my legs and hit the floor became an all to often way for me to cope. The problem at this point was that I didn’t see the problem.
So what if I cut myself, I wasn’t hurting anybody but me. If everyone else could hurt me that why couldn’t I? As much as it physically hurt and left damage to my body my emotional state felt this temporary fix that was completely worth it.
I was fully aware that as the cuts healed and the pain faded that all that would be left was a pink scar and a chest full of unbearable emotion or lack there of depending on the mental state I was in. But I needed that few days of relief to keep going.
As time went on the cuts got deeper mostly so the healing time would be longer so I could prolong that controlled feeling. As quickly as the cuts grew in depth they grew in number as well. There were times I would walk around with cuts from my hip almost all the way to my knee.
Surprisingly it would be a long time before anyone would catch on to this again. Since I got caught that first time I had been sure to be extra careful about depth and placement to avoid unwanted attention. This was yet another habit I had pick up that I had no intention of setting down any time soon.
“In case you didn’t know, dead people don’t bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you’re alive. It’s irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.”
― Amy Efaw
