The Writers Voice
I dragged the razor blade across my wrist several times, not trying to do any serious damage, I just needed to cut. I knew cutting wasnít a healthy way to deal with my problems, I knew it would leave scars, and I knew I would never be able to wear a t-shirt again, but that didnít stop me.
For a moment all my emotional pain was gone. I could feel the cold blade, the blood drip down my arm, and the shivers it caused, but for a moment I wasnít depressed or angry. For a moment I was free. Everything was okayÖor so I thought. Cutting became an addiction, a ritual. While I was cutting I felt good, almost happy, but the next day I was always in excruciating pain. But no matter how bad it hurt I would continue to cut, for a while it was almost a on a daily basis.
Cutting used to give me such a rush; at first I didnít want to stop. Eventually the guilt and pain was too strong, I had to stop. I still remember the feeling cutting gave me; it was almost like a high. The sound of my skin ripping, the smell of blood, and the sting: I enjoyed it all. But it was not worth it. My shame was much greater than any high cutting could give me. I knew what I was doing was unhealthy and wrong, and I knew some of my scars would never fade.
Although cutting made me feel great and for a few seconds it helped me feel better I regret it greatly. Cutting can be a way to deal but it will eventually just make things worse. Not only was cutting another problem but it was hard to quit, very hard. At times I still feel tempted whenever I see sharp objects, but self-mutilation solves nothing. If I have a problem I write or talk about now, which I have to say, is much more helpful.
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