I Struggle With Self Harm
I will be alone tomorrow. It’s a dangerous concept. I honestly don’t know if I can hold out. I don’t know if I can stop myself.
The original desire to self harm came to me while I was on antidepressants. The desire expanded as the drugs were switched and raised and lowered.
So I come off the drugs. I felt better. A lot better.
However, there was a little voice whenever I felt bad... be it for one reason or the other.
‘Just a small cut, just across the hand. They’ll never know.’
The voice was right. Sometimes I still do it. I’ll just cut my hand. Gentle. Enough to feel the initial sting of the blade cutting through. Then I’d stop.
Someone asked what happened once, I said that a cat attacked me. My sister had a cat at the time, it wasn’t questioned.
The voice got louder.
‘How about your arm? You wear long sleeves anyway. What’s the harm really? It’s only gentle. Barely any blood. Barely any harm.’
I’ve done that too, the voice eventually won out. I, of course, was aware that I was getting worse but the voice told me not to worry about it.
So I didn’t... because it felt nice. It felt nice to feel something real.
The thing the voice doesn’t say is that it’s searching for that old feeling. That feeling that you used to have. The feeling that not caring comes with.
The first time... there was no gentleness. There was no worrying. There was no giving a shit.
It’s like an addiction. You’re searching for that first high again... and a part of you knows that you won’t get it, but you search anyway.
The voice is whispering again.
The original desire to self harm came to me while I was on antidepressants. The desire expanded as the drugs were switched and raised and lowered.
So I come off the drugs. I felt better. A lot better.
However, there was a little voice whenever I felt bad... be it for one reason or the other.
‘Just a small cut, just across the hand. They’ll never know.’
The voice was right. Sometimes I still do it. I’ll just cut my hand. Gentle. Enough to feel the initial sting of the blade cutting through. Then I’d stop.
Someone asked what happened once, I said that a cat attacked me. My sister had a cat at the time, it wasn’t questioned.
The voice got louder.
‘How about your arm? You wear long sleeves anyway. What’s the harm really? It’s only gentle. Barely any blood. Barely any harm.’
I’ve done that too, the voice eventually won out. I, of course, was aware that I was getting worse but the voice told me not to worry about it.
So I didn’t... because it felt nice. It felt nice to feel something real.
The thing the voice doesn’t say is that it’s searching for that old feeling. That feeling that you used to have. The feeling that not caring comes with.
The first time... there was no gentleness. There was no worrying. There was no giving a shit.
It’s like an addiction. You’re searching for that first high again... and a part of you knows that you won’t get it, but you search anyway.
The voice is whispering again.
