We all find ways to cope and comfort ourselves when times call for it. Not all of these ways are understood by those around us nor are they always safe and or in our best interest but we all find ways.
As I hit my teenage years my mental health status was at an all time low. I hated everything and every one. Nothing was ever right and happiness just wasn’t something I did well. I was good at faking it though, when the time called for it. I discovered young that I wasn’t like everyone else. My brain didn’t work the same as everyone else’s so sometimes faking it was something that just had to be done.
It wasn’t just happiness I was bad at. I was just bad at feelings in general. I took everything in and it instantly turned to hate and anger. To be honest I was bad at most things that others seemed to handle with ease. I did my best to fake it to be more like those around me, never with much success. I soon was full of either rage or nothing all the time. It didn’t matter what I did or who I was around nothing was okay and if I wasn’t mad at the world I was empty and numb.
The first time I ever cut myself it was an accident. I was mad at someone for something and I was throwing things around my room. As I grabbed the scissors off the dresser and tossed them I cut my hand and it hurt. I paused.
It hurt. I felt something, something that wasn’t nothing or unexplained rage. I was amazed at the stinging pain and the warm drops of blood that filled my palm and I sat down on the floor calm and relaxed. Two more feelings I hadn’t felt in a long time. I just let the emotion take over and enjoyed every second of it while it lasted. As the pain started to subside so did the feelings.
From every wound there is a scar,
and every scar tells a story.
A story that says,