This might be kind of triggering, so I’m putting it behind a read more.Maybe if my room wasn’t such a mess and there weren’t random things lying around, and it wasn’t normal for me to have random sharp objects that didn’t seem like a threat to anything lying around all over the place, and I didn’t know exactly where my scissors always were, maybe I wouldn’t have ever cut myself, maybe I wouldn’t have resorted to that. But what would I have done? I can’t even remember what the first real time was like anymore. I mean, I had done it in previous years before, but it had never been anything too serious. Just teensy little marks that would sting and disappear in a week. There was one really bad time, but it never really got bad until this year. And I don’t know what made me do it. I can’t remember a damn good thing about it. All I remember is grabbing the scissors and lashing at my thighs, thinking it’d be satisfying. And then once those got dull, I moved on to another, sharper pair, the ones that really scarred me. Right now I can count 26 lines on my right leg, and eight on my left. My left leg seems to have faded a bit, but God only knows when my right leg will be showable again. I’m annoyed with having to hide it, because someone in school knows. And I know she sees me try to cover it up when I notice that they’re showing during gym class. I know she eyes at my legs wondering if there are any new additions. It doesn’t bother me that she’s curious, or that she figured it out at all. She apologized to me when people were bothering me about it in the locker room… even though she didn’t know right away what they were, she figured it out as soon as I turned red about them. No one has said anything since because I’ve been so conscious about keeping them in a shadow. I don’t want them to stop me from wearing dresses. The biggest scar pops out, because it’s closest to my knee. If that could be the only thing left behind, I wouldn’t mind as much, and when Amber noticed it, I told her it was a scratch from my neighbor’s cat. If my dress had lifted up a teeny bit more, she would have known I was lying.
God, I hide this all so well, but if everyone that loves me really did know, what would they even think? People at school perceive me as the happiest person ever. I know it’s kind of fucked up, but in a way, I want them to all realize how terribly wrong they are, but I want them to be amazed at my ability to love life and love myself and love and care about everyone around me and still, at times, be borderline suicidal. I want people to realize that I’m not some big smiling idiot with an empty mind. I want them to understand that I’m being tortured by my own thoughts to the point where I can’t even control what I do to my own body. And I haven’t done it in months. I can’t remember the exact time I last did it. I don’t even know if it was before or after my birthday. But to anyone who sees the scars, the last time doesn’t matter. They only see what it is - insecurity, depression, and just pure pathetic.
How would things change if my parents knew? What about my therapist? I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to see her ever again. I’m so fucking sick of it, it gets nowhere. I talk, and talk, and it feels tedious and I don’t really feel like she’s listening to me anymore. I know there are steps to recovery and stuff like that, maybe this is me just being in the stupid mindset that everyone with stupid problems seems to stupidly be in. But I really honestly believe that everything is on me now, and that the only person who can fix things is myself. I don’t have the guts to/literally cannot talk about things anymore. I just don’t know what to say and I don’t feel like it’s worth it. Not because I think no one cares, because I know that I have plenty of people in my life who will listen to me in any horrible, awful, painful time, whether there would be any advice given or not. It’s not that I don’t think I’m worth it, because I know I am. I just don’t think anybody needs to know. They should know the Julie that they’ve always known, not some fucked up, irritable bitch.