By Alan D.D.
There was a day when I felt as I haven’t felt for a long while. Something was calling me, something saying my name over and over again. It yelled for me to take advantage of the emptiness I felt inside, the freezing cold that grew in my bones, and the weight that was increasing in my shoulders.
The razor blade in the bathroom was calling once again.
It doesn’t have to hurt to work
Every time I cut, I feel the guilt, the shame of failing again, and I face the fact that maybe my family could find out. I face that they could see the scars and wounds somehow, and some would blame me.
It isn’t that it makes me feel better, but after I do it, a release takes place.
Once again, I was in that position.
I gain release from writing poetry
For a long time I’ve expressed my pain, hurt and loneliness by my art, poems, and stories. I have found a voice in fiction, and in playing the Divine by being in control in a fake world. It feels great creating my own rules, destiny and place.
I don’t care about the quality or format of my drawings, or about the fact that I don’t follow a strict structure for poetry. What I care about is that I feel fine after doing it.
My choice, only mine
That day, when I felt the need to cut again, when the razor was calling my name and tempting me with the false promise of healing, I decided to follow a little glimpse of wisdom I found on Facebook. There was an image that said, “It doesn’t have to hurt to work.” It was speaking about scars of self-harming, and showing a pen.
I took a pen and drew stitches on my skin in places I could cover with my clothes.
One, two, three, and then some more, and I felt relieved. Not as much as with real cuts, to be honest, but it was an option, my option, and it was me who decided to make this choice instead of making the same mistake again.
It’s been almost a year
After that, I did the same thing a couple of times, and have been in total control ever since. I’ve been completely clean of shame and guilt, safe from myself, and proud of the months, almost a year, I’ve spent away from self-harming.
It’s been a year all by myself, and because it is my choice, the decision has been only mine not to fall again into the wrong choices.
It is also your choice
Just as I’ve done, you, the one who’s reading this, can do it if you take up the pen.
Black, yellow, blue, or red. Three, twenty, or one. The color or quantity of pens or marks doesn’t matter. What matters is only the fact that as long as your skin is safe, you can trick your mind, feel a little bit better while the storm goes, and then bathe away the fake scars.
It was my choice and it is also yours, yours alone.