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I have an addiction. I tried to stop, but it didn't work for very long. My parents don't seem to care, and no one else does either. I don't think I'm depressed, I just love the sight of my own blood. I love the pain of cutting. I think the scars left behind are beautiful.
I first started cutting in seventh grade. What made me do it, I really can't remember. I can't remember most of the things that happened in my past. It didn't take long for my mom to find out. And when she did, she told me that if I wanted attention, I should just go hang myself. And she beat me. I told my step dad what she said and did, and he confronted her about it. She made this big deal about it, saying how we were going to come home one day and see her hanging from the ceiling fan and stupid s**t like that because her own daughter and husband hated her. She denied everything, and fed my step father lies, telling him she never touched me, and never said anything like that. I'm not really sure what happened after.. All I know is that my parents sort of ganged up on me.. Telling me I was the one in the wrong.
I stopped for a little while, after my mom told every single person in my family. My sister made me promise I would never do it again. I tried my best. I really did. I don't remember what made me do it again. But I started it up again in eighth grade.
My best friend began to cut herself, because she didn't feel good enough. Much like I did. But you see, she was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I'm actually in love with her now. And I didn't realize this until now. Or maybe it's because of the fact I fall in love too easily.. Who knows? But I felt bad for her. I didn't tell her to stop, only because I would've sounded like a hypocrite. Eventually her parents found out, and they moved. I still talk to her, and I love her dearly, but she's not the same person I once knew.
Then I met someone else. A guy. He was gay, and he immediately deemed himself my best friend. I loved him so, so much. He had so much potential, an amazing singer, and a beautiful soul. He told me how each day he went to school, the other students there would bully him and beat him up. They would call him names and make him feel worthless. His parents were never home, often gone for months at a time, I believe. I never met him in real life. In fact, he lives on a completely different continent than me. He told me that he loved me, and would always tell me how beautiful I was, when no one else did. He made me feel special. And I tried my hardest to return the favor, to make him feel special. Because that's what he was to me. Special. One day, he told me he was sorry. I didn't know what he meant, but he kept apologizing, saying how he cut himself again. He sent me pictures. And they were gruesome. Really deep. I told him it was okay, because I had actually cut myself a little bit ago, also. He asked me to show them to him, but I felt too self conscious. Uncomfortable. I had never shown anyone my cuts before. He told me it was okay, and that he still loved me. Then, another night, he told me he didn't want to go on living anymore. He tried to overdose, and I stayed with him, talking to him, trying to get him help. He eventually did, though. He was okay, and I was happy that I wasn't going to lose him. I was actually happy. He said he was in love with me. That I was his role model, and that he would try to go bisexual for me. I was so happy to finally mean something to someone else. The last time I talked to him, I told him that he was gorgeous. And he replied with, "No, I am dead." Then I had to go, I had to leave him to go to work, though very unwillingly. After that, I didn't talk to him for a few days. God knows why, and I really regret not talking to him. I finally decided to message him, and he never replied. To this day, I really don't know what happened to him. But it's kind of obvious my love might be dead.
I remember we had an awards night at my school. I got three awards, I believe, for my volunteer service and ending the school year with a 3.75 or higher GPA. My mother told me that she was unhappy with my shitty behavior and my terrible attitude. And if I would've listened to her, I would've ended the year with a 4.0. She told me she wasn't proud of me at all. She told me I wasn't good enough. And I'm not. On that day, I slashed my thighs, and I accidentally went a little too deep. But it felt amazing.
Sometimes I feel that I'm fat. But I know I'm not. I just get disgusted with the fact that I eat. I want to throw up my food each time I let it go down my throat. My mom calls me overweight and my parents constantly comment on my weight. The last time I weighed myself, I was 98lbs. Maybe a little more now. I'm too scared to weigh myself. I hardly shower, I'm too lazy to get out of bed, I hate going out, unless it's with friends. But I'm not depressed. I don't know what I am. I guess I'm just a monster. Someone who loves to watch herself bleed. I'm a psycho. My parents and my siblings don't seem to care at all that I feel like dying. They say it's just a phase. I don't know if I want it to end. Is that so wrong?
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