Letter V2.0 in The Past

I think this is it… this is what I want to send in.

It’s 1.5 pages, but meh, it’s better than 3.5, right?

I was thinking about adding an email address to this, with a note that if anyone needs / wants someone to talk to, they could contact me there, but I don’t know. I kind of like how it ends.

Dear Reader,

I started cutting when I was 15. It was never about suicide, but about finding control in a situation I felt powerless in. My father was abusive, seeming to take joy in breaking me down emotionally and mentally as well as physically. It didn’t take long for me to begin to crack. After a short while I couldn’t feel anything but anger. I could feel the anger inside of me, it was a black ichor that took the place of my blood, and I had no way to get rid of it. That’s when I discovered the razor.

I found control the first time I cut, and I relished it. The sharp pain cleared my head, and the anger seemed to drain out of me with every drop of blood. I fell in love with the blood, the way that the vibrant, rich, life-giving liquid would bead up from the slashes in my leg, only to slide down my skin.

I knew that people wouldn’t understand the comfort I found while hurting myself, so I hid my canvas, wearing only long pants or skirts that would go down to my ankles. Even so, my mother and sister found out. Mom cried and my sister got angry, yelling at me for being so stupid, so weak. She threw away the razors and made me promise never to hurt myself again. Their reactions scared me. By the time I was 16, I had lost the part of me that could deal with strong emotions, sinking deeper and deeper into the apathy that depression brings. The vibrancy and strength of their anger, fear, and worry scared me. It made me want to cut more.

I would promise that I’d never cut again, and I’d be ashamed of my weakness and of the pain that I caused them. And I meant it. I meant it every time that I said I was done. But something would happen either at home or at school and I’d feel the need begin to rise. I’d start getting edgy, start dreaming of the color red, of the blood flowing across bared skin. I would break, pulling out another razorblade and drawing It across my skin. The first cut was always a relief, a soothing wave that would wash over my mind and body. I’d watch the blood trickle down and that blessed calm would take me again.

The guilt and shame would plague me afterwards, which would start the need building. After a while, every problem, every stressor brought the dreams and the whole world seemed to be washed in red. I didn’t know what to do – my very escape became a prison.

Enter Jen.

To this day, I hold that Jen is one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever met, inside and out. She had a light around her, and she was one of those people who could make you smile, just by smiling at you. Right when I thought that I couldn’t hold everything together any longer, she invited me to spend the night at her house.

We spent hours watching anime and talking about any random things that popped into our minds. When we were changing for bed, Jen noticed my half-healed cuts and the scars from over a year of self-harm. When she reached out to pull the leg of my too-short and faded pajama pants up to my knee, I didn’t stop her.

I was already preparing for the worst. I knew what would happen next: she would put on theatrics, yelling, crying, screaming, and telling me how what I was doing was wrong. She would make me promise never to do it again, and I’d have one more person to let down when I broke my promise. I pulled in on myself, staring into her face, waiting for the inevitable explosion. It never came.

Jen took a long time to look at the multitude of scars that crossed my leg, and all she said was, “Shibby design.”

It was in that moment of acceptance and shared knowledge that I felt the piece of me that I thought had died, take root and begin to grow. She may not have seen me at my darkest, or my worst, but she had seen my private shame, my private salvation and did not flinch away. Jen didn’t judge me, and even though I was flawed, she loved me. That knowledge gave me the strength to start looking outwards and that night, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t dream in red.

And that brings us to you, dear Reader.

Sometimes when your world is breaking apart and you’re barely holding on, it feels as though you’re completely alone. You’re not. Depression is a disease which isolates us, pushing us away from everything and everyone we love. It chills, freezing hearts one cut at a time. It makes it hard to remember that there’s anything other than the cold, other than the loneliness. Take these words and hold them as tight as you can: There IS someone out there who cares, someone who’ll listen without judgment, who’ll love you, no matter what your flaws.

You are loved, don’t forget that.

You are loved.

Love,

Me

Last updated December 24, 2016