The Eleventh Piece Self Harm: Part One (Trigger Warning)

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“Do you want to try it?” she asked

We were hiding in a hallway that linked two doorways; one led outside and the other led to the main hallway of our school.

I could not detach myself from the razor that she had in her hand. They were all creating a small incision on their wrist. I was curious. I grabbed the razor and created a cut on my left wrist. I felt a small sting, but it felt so good.

This wasn’t the first time I used pain as an escape. I would constantly pinch my body or burn myself in certain parts to just make certain emotions go away. The pain that rushed through my body was exhilarating. It took me to a place where I could only feel pain and nothing else, so when I made that cut on my wrist, my addiction commenced.

Every time I felt like I was emotionally collapsing from my insomnia nights, flashbacks, or life in general, I would close myself in my bathroom and break a shaving razor using the blade to lightly slice my wrist. After I was finished ,I threw the evidence away and became friendly with long sleeve shirts and sweaters.

One particular evening stands out though.

I was about 13 years old and I remember having a bad day. My bad days before were worse than today. Memories of my past would come back to me and drop me to my knees.

Luckily, I was alone in my room when a sudden flash back made me tremble. I can’t remember what the memory was, I can only remember what it did to me. I couldn’t breathe. My sight was blurry. I was shaking and sweating. I screamed a silent screamed and rushed to the bathroom. I looked for a shaving razor, but couldn’t find one. I saw a loose razor blade and picked it up. I slashed my wrist without stopping until my wrist was covered in a blanket of crimson red. My tears were like rain showers washing away dirt from the street. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried until my throat was dry. I cried until my eyes were red and swollen. I cried until my stomach ached. I cried until I had nothing else left. I was in there for a long time and no one suspected anything, just how I liked it.

It wasn’t until late that night that my addiction was discovered by my mother. She saw the blood from my sleeve and pulled it up. Tears fled from her and she asked Why?

I said, “Because of him…dad.” I wanted her to know the truth, but her ignorance overcame.

“I know you miss him. He will be with us soon. Don’t cry. Don’t do this anymore.” She caressed my hair.

I stared blankly and didn’t know what to think. No matter what, my truth was meant to stay buried.

“I just miss him.” I responded in a monotone voice.

I lied through my teeth. I lied.

Once again, my truth dwelled in the dark.

My addiction continued and

My wrist became a museum of my bad days.

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