I self harm a lot. That’s the truth – the reality of my sad existence and mental illness. I pull my hair out to the point where I have bold patches, I snap rubber band so many times a day that the skin on my wrist is bruised and has different texture, I cut my thighs, my shoulders and my wrists. I cut to the point where blood goes down my hand and it’s hard to stop the bleeding, I cut to the point where I need stitches and dressing on my wounds, I cut to the point where the pain is so terrible that I am shaking in the shower and want to be sick. Then I tell lies that I cut my wrist on the knife at work, that I fall over and my arm is scratched. Lies, lies, lies – my life is a constant lie to everyone around me. Because after all I’ve always been that bubbly, smiling, nerdy little person who preferred books than reality.
People don’t realise how nasty mental illness can get. They often think that’s sadness it’s all it is – how wrong they are. It’s hardly ever mentioned that taking care of yourself can get awfully ugly; crying yourself to sleep, hurting yourself, screaming – all those terrible terrible things that people don’t want to talk about.
I’m twenty, in case someone’s wondering, I’ve been struggling with depression for last 8 long years, I’m on four different medications and I still feel like I’m going crazy in the evenings. I used to, at that time, drink and get completely fucked on weed. It was so easy to get lost in them, so blissful to forget about sickening reality. It’s been, now, four weeks since I got high and drunk.
I’m wrapping my wrist in a bandage again. The cut is reaopening all the fucking time.
Twinkle twinkle little pill it’s time for you to make your will.