Brief

Writing about all this weird stuff is starting to make me feel better about it.  I have been trying very hard to keep it hidden, even to myself.  So writing about it has really helped me realize it’s a serious part of me and that I’ve conquered it for the most part.

  I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever be able to handle stress or anger ‘normally.’  Was there ever a point in my life before I started self-harming when I knew how to handle stress or anger without wanting to literally cut it out of me?  I have an early memory of standing in my room and looking in the mirror on top of my white dresser.  I don’t remember if I was angry at someone or upset but I remember staring at my face and scratching a spot on my cheek.  I kept scratching and scratching until a big sore was born on my cheek.  I remember feeling a sense of relief when I had made it through my skin.  Where did I learn to do that?  How did I know that it would help me feel better?  So when I started self-harming in junior high, was that actually the first time I discovered how much it helps me or did I already know?  And if it’s been a part of my reasoning for so long, could I ever unlearn it?  Even though I’ve been going the past few months without self-harming, this is the first time that I’ve really realized how much I miss it.  I miss having the routine.  I miss having absolute complete control over something at all times.  I miss everything about it.  This is so frustrating.  But then again, it has made me who I am and I truly have no regrets.  I am glad to have made it this far out of the hole that I fell into.

  Well this blog is going to be short.  I’m going to write more later – I’m watching Dexter right now and it’s hard to write while watching haha.  Thanks for reading.

Picture:  

Found on the internet somewhere.  SO CUTE and STRANGE

History 4

Hello again!  I’ve been meaning to write sooner of course but you know how life can be sometimes.  I finished my spring semester of college with straight A’s and am now trying to find a good job.  I really want to start working in the school district since that’s what my major is but I have no idea about how to figure that out.  And I have absolutely no prior experience aside from volunteering at Head Start for 20 hours.  I am still going to look and see what I can find.  I really want to get an early start on my career.

  On a different note, I’m going to start typing and see if I can start spewing out more stuff about my history with self-harming.  Now that I’ve been talking about it I feel as if it’s maybe a boring thing to be talking about?  I’m not sure… like I should be talking about other things?  But in reality I have nothing else I really want to say.  I’m content with babbling on about my bad habits more than anything else. 

  I have been feeling sort of stressed out about my scars lately.  Most of my scars are almost completely white so you can’t see them at first glance.  However, I have some newer ones on my left arm that are still a bright red color.  They’re probably the most ‘suicidal’ looking ones too since they’re going in the opposite direction of how I used to cut.  These cuts are old-ish though… I think a few months old.  Anyway, it’s starting to get warm and sunny outside which means I can’t wear my hoodies that I love to hide myself in.  If I didn’t have these new scars I wouldn’t be worried but since they’re there and they look as bad as they do, I’m extra nervous.  I have those same fears of people judging me and blah blah blah.  See, if I was doing this for attention, why the hell would I have a freakin’ panic attack from someone seeing my scars?  I don’t want anyone to see them if I really had the choice.  I mean yeah, I do have a choice to hide them, but I really don’t want to go the extra mile and be uncomfortable just to protect my consciousness from being terrified of what others think.  I don’t want to wear those stupid wrist warmers I used to wear or hoodies in 90 degree weather either.  And I don’t want to be judged either.  It doesn’t matter what other people think but if they’re judgments change how they’re going to treat/act towards me, then yes I’m going to give a flying fuck.  I wish that more people would take the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ more seriously.  I’m a good example of that saying.  I value my life more than anyone thinks haha.

  So yeah, I’m nervous about showing my scars again.  I think one of the hardest parts is having to explain what they are, why they look the way they do, and why I put them there.  When I was still dating my ex—I think about 3 years into the relationship or so—I remember a particular time when he had asked why my scars look the way they do.  They don’t look like scars from cutting.  They look like scars from being sliced open and not getting stitches.  We were taking a shower together when he asked me and I calmly explained to him why they look so wide instead of more thin like a normal cut.  It made me feel weird to explain my little secret to someone, especially him.  What I didn’t explain to him was that my urges were horrible and the normal cutting method wasn’t working for me anymore.  I was getting more dangerous with it and edging more and more towards that boundary of life and death, stupidity and brains.

WARNING:  This paragraph is graphic.  Don’t read if you are squeamish.  Just skip to the next paragraph if you have to.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I had made this dangerous step one day in the school bathroom.  It became a routine for me to self-harm before my math class started every single weekday.  I started by using the bathrooms in one of the main buildings on campus before finally settling with a couple bathrooms in my math building.  I think I switched because it gave me more time to self-harm if I was just down the hall from class instead of in another area on campus.  So that one day I was in the bathroom in my not-math building on campus and was doing my normal cutting routine.  Up until this point, I had made several cuts starting from the top of my wrist moving down towards my elbow.  Every single cut I made was usually closed up with butterfly strips to avoid infection, bleeding through the bandages and clothing, horrible scars, etc.  I was working on a particular cut when I unknowingly went deeper than I normally did.  These strange puffy-transparent-fatty-looking particles pushed up through my flesh and spread the cut apart further than normal.  I had absolutely no idea what it was at the time but knew that I had reached a new level.  I had reached a new high when I didn’t think it could be possible.  I had gotten to a huge rush that I only had the first time I started self-harming.  Going this deep made it much harder to close up, though.  I had to try and push the fat cells back down beneath the flesh so I could close up the cut and move on with my day.  After closing up the cut with butterfly strips, I’d put a big bandaid or gauze on the wound and would put my wrist warmer or hoodie on.  You know what my favorite part of this whole routine was?  I used nothing but toilet paper to soak up the blood and such, which meant that I could just flush it when I was done.  Yes.  The perfect solution to the perfect crime.  No trace left behind.  No bloody tissues in the garbage can to scare anybody.  Nobody would ever find out.  I usually disposed of my ‘tools’ though by wrapping them in toilet paper and throwing them away in the garbage can.  Nobody would see those since a bloody tissue would be more noticeable than a wadded up tissue that could possibly have copious amounts of snot or something.  Ew.  So from that point on, every time I cut, I would go that deep again and again.  I wouldn’t stop and be completely satisfied until I reached those fat cells.  But of course like with any addiction, it became boring again for me and I had to keep trying and trying to reach that ultimate high again.  So the next thing I did was stop closing the cuts.  I let them sit there, fat cells pushing out of my flesh and all, and heal open.  I never got an infection because I knew exactly what I was doing and always was as careful as possible.  Even though using toilet paper is dangerous since particles could come off into the wound… I never had a problem.  The thrill in leaving my cuts open was indescribable.  I ended up taking pictures of them just so I could see and relive that ultimate high I had achieved once again.  I even took pictures of them with a penny next to the cut so I could see how open the cut was.  Every time I go back and look at the pictures, I am completely floored at how little it shocked me at the time compared to how shocking it is now.  I can’t believe how far into it I got.  It completely amazed me…  I couldn’t believe how close I was to that line, but how much control I had at the same time.  That control is what drove me to continue without question.  So of course if I was leaving these huge cuts open, I was definitely running out of valuable room on my arm.  I moved to the other side of my arm (the same arm, since I’m right-handed) and had plenty of room there.  I hated cutting in that area though because the skin felt more sensitive and I had a harder time being able to tolerate getting to the point that I was used to getting to.  But I kept going.  And I kept getting worse and worse and worse, which I can’t believe was even possible.

  Anyway, I’ll continue another time.  I have to be careful about writing too much at once because I get all worked up and stressed out as I relive what I did to myself.  Eesh.  Thanks again for reading.  See ya!

Picture:

Crowd-rafting?  Could you imagine?  

History 3

  Long time no talk.  Sorry I haven’t written anything in a while.  Life happened and this semester has wrapped up finally.  It feels great to be done with another semester and I’m a little closer to what I’ve been trying to achieve for so long.  Hooray for education!  Expensive, expensive education! 

  Anyway, I thought I’d write some more about my history with self-harm again.  I haven’t been sure about what part to go into though.  Let’s see…  I remember at one point in Junior High, I was supplying surgical blades to all my friends that self-harmed.  I can’t remember what happened but our locker got searched one day and they found the surgical blades in there.  I was absolutely mortified of getting caught with my big secret I was trying to keep from all the adults.  I sat in the principal’s office and told a bullshit story that I had no idea where the blades were from and that I thought a friend of a friend was giving them to my locker partner.  I felt awful that my friends had to lie for me too but they did.  The principal believed us and we had no more problems.  Eventually I started going to these counseling groups with my friends and others to help with stress and such.  I don’t remember if we ever talked about self-harm though.  I doubt it.  I really didn’t want people to know what I was doing because of how sacred it became to me.

  High school started and some of my friends went to a different high school than I did since I was right in the middle of two high schools and decided to go to the nicer one.  My self-harm sort of slowed down and there were several months at a time where I didn’t self-harm at all.  My senior year of high school got kind of bad, though.  I had a friend who also self-harmed and we would go in the bathroom before class and look at the cuts we had made the night before.  I also became obsessed with my weight and counted my calories like crazy.  No more than 400 calories some days, and if I got above that I would feel like I failed.  It was so wonderful to have control of something even though my weight always stayed in the same damn spot.  I became obsessed with looking at ‘thinspo’ and drooling over how skinny the Victoria’s Secret models were.  There was a boy that I started dating too but I’m not going to go into that now.  I only self-harmed a few times while I was with him.

  During my junior year in high school, I met a guy in my body-conditioning class.  We had a lot in common and I loved how hilarious he was.  We dated for almost 5 years--4 years and 360-ish days to be exact.  My cutting/self-harm got its absolute worse during this relationship.  I think it’s because I felt like I was stuck in a relationship that defined me and took away my true identity.  I didn’t want to leave him and instead looked at myself as the cause for any problems in the relationship.   He was the one with addictions and I enabled him which caused me to lose myself completely.  I identified myself as the perfect girlfriend who was only there to take care of him.  It didn’t matter what I felt at any point in time.  I became so focused on being perfect for him that I grew to hate myself more and more.   I remember the exact moment when my cutting started and grew into a bigger problem than I ever could’ve imagined.  During the week sometime, I was staying the night at his house and I think we got into a discussion about the things he didn’t like about me physically.  I had been drinking wine that night too and was a little more emotional than normal. He was busy watching tv or going to bed or something when I went and hid in his bathroom for a while.  I found my shaving razor that I was bringing over to shave with and made several cuts on the right side of my right calf, working my way up and down my leg and over the cuts.  I just didn’t care and wanted those damn feelings to get out of me.  Cutting with a shaving razor is one of the most painful ways of cutting.  The cuts are shallow and paper-cut like, meaning they burned more than the regular cutting I became familiar with.  Since such a large area on my leg had been cut up, it truly felt like it was on fire.  I bled all over the inside of my jeans but didn’t care and my boyfriend never noticed.  That’s one thing that I liked about cutting with a shaving razor—since the cuts are so shallow, they heal fast without leaving any scars, thus enabling me to get away with my little secret again.  After that night, I discovered that releasing the heaps of pain I had inside of me by cutting was something I wanted to chase after again.  I wanted more.  I wanted to go deeper.  I wanted to bleed more.  I wanted to keep pushing against that dangerous line that I swore I would never cross.

  From that point, my self-harming became a big blur.  I bought a box of disposable surgical blades online for dirt cheap and used them religiously.  It started with cuts on my arms about 3 times a week then eventually got to several times a day.  Every single day.  I got to the point where before my morning class, I would hide in the bathroom in a building that didn’t have too many students running around and would spend a good 45 minutes with my bad habit.  It became an addiction to me.  I needed more of it and was constantly chasing after that first huge rush when I cut up my leg with the shaving razor.  My goodness…

  Ok I was going to write more but I’m getting tired.  I will go into more detail about how bad I got and all the scary moments I had.  Thanks for reading.

Picture:

Who does stuff like this??? GAH!  Found on cuteoverload.com :)

Teeny Tiny Update

Hey there.

  I’ve been meaning to write a lot this past week but have been swamped and such.  I had a friend pass away last week and just haven’t found the motivation to write.  Today was his funeral.  It was very beautiful and gave me the closure I needed. 

  I’m lacking much motivation to write anything more but I promise that I’ll start writing soon and will continue with writing about my history and such.  Thanks!

Picture:

Meow!

History 2

Hello.

  I had that same silly panicked feeling earlier tonight but it went away as I was trying to hurry and finish a project for one of my classes that’s due tomorrow.  After finally finishing it, my panicky feeling was gone but my head felt weird.  I got a small fever.  I feel absolutely fine physically so I have no idea what caused it.  Weird!

   In this blog entry I’ll write more about my history with self-harm.  My impulses were present again today and I think it’s just my coping mechanism alarm going off because of how much stuff the universe threw at me today to remind me I need to snap out of vacation mode.  I ignored the impulse as usual.  The past couple of days I’ve noticed that my self-loathing has been out of control too.  I’ve been loving myself for a while but today was the first time I started saying angry things about myself out loud when I did something wrong.  I have no idea why I’m being so self-critical right now but I know that my body’s physical state is currently repulsive to me.  I want to switch bodies so bad.  I can’t stand being in my skin right now at all.  Argh!

  Ok sorry, back on topic.  Umm let’s see… Oh I know where I’ll start.  I’d like to bring up the issue with self-harm being confused with suicidal thoughts and all of that.  Before I continue, I’m giving you another warning that what I’m about to write is graphic.  If you don’t want to read it, then skip ahead to the next paragraph.  LAST CHANCE!!  Ok.  Ever since I started self-harming when I was 13, to this day, I’ve only had suicidal thoughts twice.  The first time was when I was still 13 and lost my virginity to a boy who was three years older than me.  He wanted to break up with me and I was heartbroken because I thought he loved me.  I wanted to die so bad because I was absolutely devastated from being rejected.  In the heat of the moment, I got an old kitchen knife I had used for self-harming in the past and started a cut right above a vein on my wrist.  I vividly remember this moment and remember my thoughts when I was cutting—I didn’t once think that I wanted to cut deep enough to hit my vein and bleed to death.  I didn’t once think that I was going to end my life right then and there.  I hadn’t even gotten to the thought of what I wanted to do to off myself.  All I knew was that I wanted to die and needed to cut BAD because I was devastated that a boy didn’t love me anymore.  I was sitting on my bed on top of my white flowery comforter blanket, facing the dresser in front of my window in my room when the knife cut open my vein.  I remember everything turning dark as I went into a complete panic from the sight of my blood pumping out of a small cut on my vein.  I thought I was going to die and it was not what I was expecting at all.  I ran across my room and grabbed a bunch of toilet paper to hold onto my wrist and stop the bleeding.  I can’t remember how long it took to stop the bleeding but by the time it had stopped, both of my arms were covered in blood up to my elbows.  I had blood on my face somehow too.  For some reason I couldn’t leave my room to go clean up because I was afraid of getting caught so I stayed in my room the rest of the night with bloody arms, waiting to get up early so I could get rid of the mess.  The worst part of that memory that has stuck with me to this day aside from the shock of hitting a vein was the smell of my blood.  I had never witnessed that much blood come out of me and had no idea that blood even had a smell.  The next day in school I was in my English class and could smell a faint smell of popcorn being made down the hall.  The faint popcorn smell reminded me of the smell of my blood and I got scared because I thought I was bleeding again.  Luckily I wasn’t but my goodness how that smell made me sick to my stomach.  After that experience I avoided cutting anywhere near the veins on my arms.  I did not want to die.  I did not want to bleed to death.  I did not want to hit a vein ever again.  And I certainly didn’t have a suicidal thought for many years after that even though I continued to self-harm.

  My second experience with having suicidal thoughts was about three years ago when I was in the middle of a long-term relationship with an addict.  I don’t even remember what was going on that day but I remember driving downtown to go visit my boyfriend and I was angry at him for some reason.  This was probably the lowest point in my relationship with him where I felt absolutely hopeless and stuck.  I felt like I couldn’t get any lower and that I wasn’t living my own life anymore—not just with him, but with going to college too.  I felt like the choices I was making were not for me at all and I was truly unhappy.  So for a few minutes while driving down the freeway, I started thinking about suicide.  I thought about this ‘easy’ solution to my problems and what it would be like to not be in existence anymore.  I didn’t think that people’s lives would be easier with me gone or anything.  I just felt I was at such a low point and I wanted to disappear.  Again, I didn’t even think about how I wanted to end my life.  I just thought about the sensation of non-existence.  By the time I pulled up at my boyfriend’s house, the suicidal thoughts were gone and I haven’t had them since.

   I have cut several times before and after both suicidal thought periods and not once did the thought of suicide cross my mind.  I wanted to cut for multiple reasons which I will go into eventually.  Most of the times I cut were because I was angry at myself or angry at someone else and needed to release those extreme internal emotions.  I needed to see them ooze out of my arms.  I needed to feel them physically leaving my body.  I needed to have control over SOMETHING.  But not once did I sit there and go oh gee, I want to die, I’m going to cut so I die.  No.  I understand how one would associate a cutter with being suicidal and I know that some people who are suicidal do cut as well.  But not all cutters are suicidal.  And not all suicidal people cut.  Does that make sense?  I’m going to go into this suicide topic again soon but I’m out of energy to vent about it. 

  Anyway, that’s all I’m going to write about for now.  I will post more history stuff soon.  Thanks again for reading. 

Picture:

Found on the internet.  Hehehehe.  I wonder what that dog sounds like when it tries to breathe.

Anxiety or Jetlag?

Howdy.

  I’m not feeling good right now.  I can’t decide if it’s some minor jetlag or if my anxiety is just horrible and I’m coming up with excuses.  It’s been a few hours since I’ve gotten home from an 8-day spring break vacation in California.  I had an absolute blast!  So I may be having this weird feeling because of the flying or something.  It also feels like I have a bad feeling.  I hate admitting I have a bad feeling.  If I deny that bad feeling, it’s like my brain is trying to negotiate with the universe and maybe I’ll win this time.  I really wish I didn’t have this feeling!  Or maybe this feeling is just anxiety?  Or jetlag?  The ultimate answer may be that it’s just 4:00 in the morning and I haven’t adjusted to the time shift yet.  Anyway, I’m feeling strange.  I hope that everything is ok out there.

  Today was also the first day since my scarification incident that I’ve had the impulse to self-harm.  I don’t know what brought it on or triggered it though.  It sort of popped up in my head like it’s a normal impulse I have throughout the day and it’s something that needs to be taken care of right away.  When I’m in that state of mind, I no longer feel proud of myself for fighting my impulses and I forget every promise I’ve made to myself and others about self-harm.  I go right back into that mindset as if I had never stopped and I instantly start planning in my head where and what I’m going to do.  I guess the difference now is that I’m actually realizing what I’m doing and I’m stopping myself.  It’s hard for me in this moment to be proud of that though.  I don’t feel like I’m making any progress at all.  Even if I’m not actually self-harming but I’m battling the impulses in my head, is that progress?  Why I can’t I see it as progress?  I’m stuck in this huge hole that I’m trying to climb out of.  I’m halfway up the wall, almost within reach of the top, but I’m still in that damn hole aren’t I?  No matter how far up that wall or how low on the bottom I am, I’m still in that stupid life-destroying hole.  How is that something to be proud of?  Sorry--I don’t mean to be negative and gloomy.  I’m just trying to vomit out all these words so I can go to bed with a metaphorically happy feeling in my stomach.

  I have been sitting here for a good 30 minutes and can’t think of what else to add so I’m going to go to bed.  Thanks for reading this strange little rant.

P.S.  You know what I learned on my trip while I was out collecting rocks and seashells at the beach?  That people are like seashells.  I never found a perfect seashell but I found some absolutely beautiful ones.

Picture:

I'm posting this picture strictly because of seeing what the name of the file was.  I download this picture off of the internet because I thought awww what a cute bird!  Then I saw the filename.  Look at this bird as if it's Venom (from the comics) emerging out of a tennis ball.  Hahahahaha.  Ok I'm going to bed.

History

Hey there folks,

  I’m feeling a bit better today as far as feeling isolated and strange goes.  It’s weird being away from home (I’m currently on vacation) and seeing everything and everyone from far away.  Not that I’m focusing on that right now but it is an observation I’ve made while being away.

  A while ago I know that I was talking about making my blog more about my history/story with self-harm.  The reason why I haven’t talked about it more is because I’m scared to.  Pretty soon I’m going to let my friends know that I even have a blog and I know that some of them don’t even know of my problem with self-harming.  So I don’t know… my brain is a mess with trying to figure out what to do about this.  I could just say screw it and jump into the water so to speak.  It’s the only way I’m going to get myself to obtain my goal anyway.  I’m still trying to get over the fact that I’m writing about myself too.  I’m not writing about someone or someone else’s problems.  I’m writing about me.  It’s something to get used to eventually.  Argh!  Before I type any further, I wanted to talk about a setting I changed with this blog.  I made it so a warning comes up when you read my blog, informing you that this blog contains adult stuff.  I consider self-harm or at least what I’ll say about it adult in nature and I don’t want kiddies reading it if they’re not supposed to.  

  Anyway, where do I even start?  What do I want to talk about when it comes to my problem with self-harm?  I don’t know where to start.  I read a quote today that said something like “If you don’t know where to start, go back to the beginning.”  Hah!  I could do that.  But is it too boring?  Why does it even matter?  Blah blah blah?  Blah! I need to stop thinking so much.  Here goes.  I’m just going to start typing.

  I was 13 years old when I first started self-harming.  I didn’t even know it was called that at the time.  I knew nothing about it beyond what it did for me and how to do it.  The first day I self-harmed is still vivid in my memory.  I was 13 years-old and only an 8^th grader.  My best-friend and I were spending another day at the creek by the pond in my town.  I remember sitting on a large rock next to her where she showed me how to erase my own skin with an eraser.  It was something silly, fun, and painful that I was used to participating in at that age.  I erased a large mark on my skin that was about 2 inches long and a half-inch wide, in the direction of “down the road” and not “across the street” (“down the road” means parallel with the direction of your veins, “across the street” means across them, or perpendicular.)  I loved the feeling of creating a minor but odd looking wound on my skin that didn’t hurt until after the layers of skin underneath the erased layer were exposed to the elements.  It was such a small moment of experimentation, but at the same time was the tiny spark that started a fire which spread in every direction of my being.  I lied to my parents about the grotesque mark on my arm, telling them that I had slipped at the creek and scraped my arm up bad.  They completely believed me and I felt awesome for doing something rebellious that I could so easily get away with.

  I loved the feeling that first eraser mark gave me so much that I continued to erase my skin on both of my arms in little areas.  The pain from the erase marks was extreme but for some reason I enjoyed it and wasn’t worried about the harm to myself I was causing.  I started wearing sweatshirts all the time so nobody at school would see after having a close call at school.  Someone had seen my bandaids covering an eraser mark and reported me to the office.  One of the ladies in the office quoted a line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail – something about flesh wounds – when I was showing her my arm.  She asked how I got it and I told her that it was a dare.  I was asked nothing more and sent back to class. 

  At some point in time the curiosity I had for erasing began to get boring.  I think this is the point where self-harming became an addiction/copying mechanism for me.  I was dealing with my parents splitting at the time and all the social dramas in Jr. High.  The pain from self-harm was turning into the answer for all my problems and made me feel like I had something I had control over.  The pain was starting to not be enough for me.  I had to try something else so I started using sharper objects to cut my skin instead of erase.   At the time, none of my friends had ventured as far as I was venturing when it came to doing silly stuff to ourselves.  Nobody had tried cutting yet.  While this was still going on I still had no idea that what I was doing was called self-harm/mutilation.  I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

  I always wondered if this was mainly an addiction for me and what part of it I was addicted to.  Was it the pain?  The process?  The control?  The sight?  The blood?  The release?  The secret of it?  I was chasing that first ‘high’ for quite a long time.  I tried sharper objects and cut deeper and more often.  I finally reached the sacred ‘tool’ when I found that a relative had surgical blades I could gain access to.  Disposable, sterile, sharp blades.  These became my favorite ‘tool’ that I used ever since.  Why didn’t I go beyond surgical blades like I did with all my other ‘tools’?  Surgical blades scared the living hell out of me.  They were dangerous, sharp, and deadly.  They became the line I couldn’t cross but a line I was willing to stand right in front of and challenge like humans are good at doing.

  Ok I’m exhausted from typing.  That’s all I want to write about for now and a pretty damn good start if I say so myself.  Before I finish, and I think I’ve mentioned this somewhere in a previous post, I wanted to say that I’m not writing about this in support of self-harm.  I DO NOT promote self-harm in ANY WAY.  My experience with it is hopefully an experience that others can learn from.  I want to supply the right answers to those who have questions.  I don’t want to supply the wrong solutions.  Self-harming is very negative and if you know someone who self-harms, be sure to be there for them if they need you.  If they want help, then help them.  Just know that not everyone out there fully understands self-harm for what it really is so sometimes it’s hard for a self-harmer to want/get help.  I’m hoping I can provide a better understanding of what it is so others will have a better understanding.  And hey, ignorance is bliss.  Sometimes things are best left unknown or unheard.  To each their own.  If you don’t want to hear anymore about this then I won’t make you but I’m not going to stop talking about it.  You can choose not to read any more of this and I will not judge you.  Do what you want because you’re just as human as I am!

Alright, it’s about 2:30 A.M. and I’m starting to feel like I’m regressing into an elderly lady with low blood sugar and blurry vision.  Thank you so much for reading this.  I appreciate it more than words can say.  Night!

Picture:

In honor of St. Patty's Day. Found on cuteoverload.com