Isn’t it sad that the only reason why I hated hurting myself was because of the paranoia that came along with doing so? The constant fear that one of my family members may see the scars, or the new cuts tracing my upper arm (and if I was having a really bad day my lower arm as well), when I get out of the shower ,or when my cardigan would slip off my shoulder. I swear, in those moments I faced fear right in the eyes, because my anxiety and paranoia was eating me whole for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But when it came to school, it didn’t matter who saw. Which also makes me sad; because that means that no one really cared enough to say anything. And the ones who did say something, were loud and obnoxious about it, and made me want to cut their throat open for making me feel so bad, and putting me in a predicament so complicated with the mere sentence “Do you cut yourself?” hanging in the air by a thin string that no one else could cut but me- and that was the only thing I couldn’t cut. And around this time last year, I’m sure my arms would be covered in thin cuts, that I would never be too satisfied with, and I’m not saying I still do not wish that upon me. Of course I do, because I am unfortunately stuck in this frame of mind that is allowing me to believe that the only way I can feel better, the only way I can feel something, the only way I can cope with this underlying sadness is if I hurt myself physically. Of course I wish my arms, and legs were coated in deep cuts, but my paranoia is preventing me from reaching this fucked up goal, and I never had such a love and hate relationship with my mind like I do now. I’m just so god damn scared of what will be.
xxx
Talia
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