How many scars will be left?

by Chelsey

Thirteen, outcasted, alone. Everything was going wrong, it all just seemed so hopeless. I remember the day when I injured myself for the first time. I was so upset, I was almost in a sort of trance. I couldn't control my emotions, and things intensified.

I threw my favorite CD at the wall, and it broke into several pieces. After staring at the mess for a few moments, I grabbed a shard, and slit my wrist. Of course it wasn't very deep, but I can still feel that sense of relief it brought me. As the years passed, I upgraded to razor blades and kitchen knives. I stopped cutting my arm, and started cutting my left thigh, to hide my secrets.

I have always been severely depressed. By the age of sixteen, my cuts were disgustingly deep, and the scars had spread. Everything I tried to do to keep myself from cutting failed. The only time I wasn't cutting myself was when I was fucked up on drugs, or some sort of intoxication. The rush of emotion was just always superior to my will power. I felt helplessly addicted to this pain. I felt the longing for it when I was upset. I felt the pressure of the blades in my chest crying to me, to please, just make one more cut.

I am seventeen years old, my scars will never fade. My cutting is still out of control, and my leg will only accumulate more scars. My heart is broken, my life is lonely, emptiness continuously overwhelms me. Everyday I ask myself if I can change who I am, and who I am becoming. Cutting will always be a part of my life.

One day however, I hope it will be a painful memory, rather than my gruesome reality.