Self Harm.

Carefully laid out on my lap is my black hand towel, and my tin, right in the middle. I open the lid of the tin, and stare at its contents. What is it about a razor blade, pill bottle, or any other sharp object.. That is so aesthetically pleasing? What is it about a razorblade that is so intricate? I could just sit and stare at these objects for hours on end. Analyzing every fine detail of its shape, and the capability it has to do anything as long as my hands guide it. What about a pill bottle? Knowing that you are holding what could possibly end it all? In the palm of your hand.. Such simple items, that you could use on a daily basis, holds the capability to take someones life. My tin carries everything I would ever need for my own demise. If such desire ever arose of course. I would have it all, in my little red tin. The items contained, if found by a parent, or another adult.. Would probably terrify them. A million questions would racing through their minds, and not knowing a single answer. The knowledge alone, knowing your son or daughter, or someone rather close to you, holds these objects as they are precious heirlooms, would probably leave them in a state of shock.
Would people think I am sick if they knew about this? Am I normal for doing so? Why do people make such a fuss over self harm? I am no scientist, nor am I going to portray myself as one, or even try to sound like one, but having a terrible history of self harm myself, I do know one thing. People don’t self harm to die. They do so to escape reality.. To fight the demons who are tearing at their insides. They are fighting to stay alive, and cope with the immense pain in any way that they can, so if hurting themselves helps them cope, and makes that person feel good, or even better, feel alive, they should be able to do so without being placed in a mental instituition like I was.
Life is filled with fucked up people, doing fucked up things. Half of the time, actually scratch that. Ninety percent of the time, no one takes notice to the little things,for example; why this person is buying Wake Ups every 3 days? Or why someone is coming in to have their prescription filled weeks before the first was meant to run out. People do crazy things, and sometimes you’re helping them but not even realizing what you’re doing until it’s too late.
What is the proper term for someone who is mentally unstable? I am not quite sure how to address us. Crazy? Psycho? Mental? Fuck Ups?EMO? Those seem to be todays terms for anyone who has ever injured themselves on purpose. If you’ve never self injured, you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t understand, nor ever will, unless a day comes that you decide to pick up those scissors, or that knife, or that lighter even. Many people say that they understand the concept of self harm. Only ones who do harm themselves truly understand the craving you get for it. The more you do it, the more you crave it. So you sit on your bathroom floor and drag that blade down the length of your arm, gritting your teeth, or some even smile as they feel the razors sharp edge caressing their skin. You sit and watch the blood seep out of your open wounds, smiling as those scarlet beads form and grow, and eventually drop to the cold floor beneath you. You spend a few extra minutes sitting and thinking. What would it feel like if i pressed that blade down even harder? How much blood can i actually bleed? if this feels damn good, will it feel better if i do it more, and even deeper? Some think they can stop once they’ve started, some think that you can control the length, and depth of your incisions. Truth is, once you make that first cut, there is no going back. If you’re in dire need for an escape, and you cut for the first time, it won’t stop. Your first cut will most likely be thin, and shallow. But as time goes on, you will cut more. You will cut deeper, as the craving gets more intense with each passing cut. One cut turns into ten. Ten turns into twenty. Twenty turns into thirty. You catch my drift. And once you run out of skin to play with on your arms, you turn to other parts of your body. You look to your legs, and start a new picture. Then your stomach. Some even go as far as to slice their backs, and even their chests. Self injury is a craving. It’s an addiction. Once you start, you can’t stop unless you get serious help.