It started with a little piece of stainless steel, a lifeline, wrapped in the brown paper slip and the empty feeling in the bottom of my heart. This isn’t about love, lust, or even a broken heart, but simply a desire for relief.
Cutting was for something unexplainable; just the depression that I seemed to always carry on my shoulders. I never knew where it came from, or when it had even started.
I’ve had people tell me that when I would cut, I was just being stupid and it was just a phase that I would eventually become tired of. But truth is, cutting was like my cocaine. It started as just a way to forget my troubles and stress from that day. Then it had at some point become that rush of adrenaline that coursed through my veins every time I felt the bite of the blade, bitterly cold and it’s soothing warmth, sinking layer by layer deepening further into my skin. Causing a river of crimson to flow. By that point I could feel the ecstasy flood through my entire body; feeling like a beautiful, angry monster had been released inside my mind, continuously devouring every sense of emotion possibly still existing within the depths of my depression.
I completely understand how someone that’s hooked on glass or squid-spit feels when someone else tells them to let go of the monstrous link that swallows every care that fills a person’s heart, mind, and soul. It’s how someone uses that ugly addiction to make themselves a more beautiful person.
Addiction, growing until it is nearly unstoppable, it could completely obliterate a person. For me, since I know how it feels to be addicted, when I see someone else battling with the same, taunting, deceptive feeling, I can empathize with them and hope that somewhere at some point in their life they will gain beauty from such a hideous, devouring demon, just as I did with cutting.