I can’t tell my friends. My own friends have turned on me, telling school administrators, psychiatrists, principals, etc etc.
I can’t tell them, either. They give you labels, Hi, My Name Is cutter, crazy, emo, suicidal, even the idea of being a mental patient makes me want to do it more.
I didn’t feel crazy until they started telling me I’m crazy. They tell me I’m depressed, that I need some sort of medication to fix me. Here’s the equation, this is what you’re missing, here’s a bottle of pills to fix it. Maybe other mental disorders, but cutting doesn’t work that way.
It’s a coping problem. You learn to cope at an early age. Don’t hit others, don’t hurt others, be sure to be nice to everyone. They never taught me not to hurt myself, to be nice to myself. If you mess up, you should be punished. It’s never enforced to not hurt yourself, let others do it for you. It’s going to happen, I promise.
But it’s my responsibility because it’s my fault. I made it wrong, let me make it better. I don’t know how to make it better so I cut. I cut because I hurt on the inside and the inside can’t get out. I cut because I can’t leave and I can’t run and I can’t scream and I need to escape. I cut because I’m crazy because I’m sick because I’m broken beyond repair and you can’t fix me unless you’re an old razor, a pair of scissors, a pen, a knife ANYTHING I can dig into my skin and bleed and bleed and bleed until I start to breathe again.
Can someone, anyone please, just help.