By Alan D.D.
Self harm, specifically cutting, is one of the topics that people are scared about. I’m not sure why, but the topic leaves an impression on everyone that participates in a discussion about it. It has been said that we should never encourage it, we should never say it is okay, or that we should condemn it. I disagree. Now, there are going to be a lot of people that will crucify me because of what I’ll say. When we’re on the edge, about to fall into what will have no remedy – death – we face a choice. We either give up on life or we cut, as much as we need, until we can breathe again. So, how does self harm help?
Saved by blood
The nights I had my breakdowns, the days when suicide became an option to me, I screamed HELL NO to myself. I cried, I bled, but I lived. I survived. I’m one of those who faced the abyss right in front of my eyes and won the fight. At a price, but I won.
Do you want to live, to breathe again, to wake up tomorrow, to have the chance and find that spark you miss from before, but have just way too much inside? If the only alternative is death, go ahead, take a razor and make the littlest cuts you can. Don’t you dare go deep. As soon as you are done, take alcohol, vinegar, or anything you have to clean the wounds and prevent any bigger problem.
There are times when we cannot make the best choice, when it is either one devil or the other. Between cuts and death, I always chose cuts, despite the pain, despite the hurt inside, because I wanted to live long enough to find hope. I wanted to recover the light I had before, and I wanted to show others that there’s always hope, no matter what.
Proud I cut
Nowadays, when I think about the scars in my knees, the ones I got now that I’m a grown man, I just feel proud. They’re a reminder of what I fought, the demons I faced, the battles I had on my own, the times when there was no one with me, and when I still won, not because I decided to cut, but because I’m still alive.
I’m proud of my wounds, proud of a wretched body, of my inner scars. I’m even more proud when I remember those nights. They remind me that I survived, that I was stronger, that we all face demons. Mine were stronger than me, but I am in more control now than yesterday.
I still feel the need now and then. The razors still call me when I’m weak enough to hear them. But it only takes a single look at my knees covered with pink lines never meant to disappear, for me to feel better. I’ve already been there before a thousand times. Hell will not get a single drop of blood from me again.