#selfharmawarness

Keep your hopes up high and your head down low.

Relapse, take a breath and start again. It happens to everybody. Maybe its drugs or alcohol, or something as simple as failing a class again. In my case it's a bit more, how do I put it? It’s dark, depressing and sickening to think about. I make it sound a lot worse than it actually is. It can be hard to break away from something that's so addictive, we all know that. It’s sad to think about how addicting it actually is. It consumes your thoughts. Push it back but it’s always there, reminding you of the person you have become. Broken, fragile, and practically half-way dead. When people around you its like walking on glass, anything they say could be triggering. My thighs hurt, they sting when I shower. It hurts to sit sometimes. Only a few people will understand what that even means, let alone what its like. 

There are methods of coping but it only works for the lucky few, I got the short end of the stick and never fully learned how to cope with it. The years of therapy I was and am still being put through could never have prepared me for what to come and what is happening. I try hard to talk to people about it but letting people in is scary. I hate letting people in because you never know when they will break your heart and leave. I’ll draw on my arm when I get an urge or snap a rubber band. Believe me, if I could figure out a way to make all this stop, I would trade everything I own for it. Feeling so empty all the time is nothing to be proud of. People seem to think that people like me like to flaunt it, it’s the complete opposite. We try our hardest to hide it. There are few out there who do it for attention but there just there for the attention and giving the rest of us a bad reputation. We don’t want to die, we don’t die. We do it because we want to feel something other than sadness. The fake smiles we put on don't last long. When you're alone in your head, your body is consumed by the darkness. We do it because we feel we deserve it. But that's the sad part no one deserves that. No one deserves to feel the need to cut into their skin every night. 

It’s really not as bad as it seems. To me at least and hundreds of others, it's normal, just part of the everyday routine. But life gets blurred. Days turn into weeks, months, years. It gets boring. And stressful. Finding little nooks and crannies in your house to hide things in. Having to constantly wear pants, long sleeves, and bracelets get bothersome. I try to not be ashamed of it. Nobody should be ashamed of their flaws or scars. Wear them proud. But on the other hand, they're a sign to other people that there is something wrong with you. People like me would rather have that part of their lives hidden from society. 

The world out there is cruel and heartless. Nobody is excepted. Having to hide from everybody is just part of the way we grew up. It’s sad to think that we judge each other based on simple things. Scars don’t mean that you died, it means you survived. Sure, we get a little ripped at the edges, but in the end, we come out more beautiful than ever scars and all. One day I plan to cover them up with tattoos, meaningful quotes. But I try to embrace them. Hide them from the public eye but in my head, I’m proud that each of them represents a time that I fought the devil and won. I pushed my death back a little further each time and each time its a sign that it’s possible to make it through. I know this was a little sadder than usual but I’m okay, for now, I just needed to clear my head and put my thought on a page. 

One of my favorite band's Icon For Hire does a lot if self-harm awareness stuff. Here is their song “Under The Knife” 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk6HMuLJ8bM 

Everyone gets depressed, everyone goes through things that they think that they won't come out of. Not alot of people like to talk about things , but dont realize just how much talking can help.

The first time that I self harmed was in the 8th grade. It was more of an expirement to what all the fuss was about. I was so angry, and confused that I tried it. It made the pain go away. It made me calm down. It was bliss. It was addicting. I hid it well even from my mother, who im sure could be an excellent detective. However there was a period of time that I really seriously was depressed, andd I had alreasy been cutting over stupid things that I got a little carried away. My arms were covered. Nobody really knew a thing, nor did they care. Or so I thought. One day my mother saw a glimps, and lost her shit. She yelled at me and told me that if she saw it again then she would personally check me in at the crazy hospital. I stoped for a little while. Did I really want to go to a crazy hospital, with people who wanted to kill themselve, didnt want to live? Did I want to kill myself? Was I suicidal? The more I pondered the questions the more I realized that I wasnt as bad off as some of those boys and girls who decided that they didnt need to live anymore.