I cut [past tense].

Cutting was an escape for me— well, the best kind of escape that I could find at the time. I was only a preteen when I picked up cutting. I was definitely the n00b of all n00bs; my weapon of choice— my mother’s craft scissors. As time passed, and I realized that the minuscule slices had made little impact on my wrists, I leveled up to women’s leg-hair razors. I taught my devious-self how to disassemble the razors, to acquire the razor blades. Once, I even became creative and used a glass shard broken from a vase of flowers an ex-boyfriend had gifted to me. No, I am not glorifying these moments, but there is no harm in being satirical towards myself. Right? Any-who, in the moments of inflicting self-harm, it just felt necessary at the time. I needed to feel physical pain to mask the internal pain that conflicted with me for so many years. I was completely and utterly alone with no one to lean on. I could relate to no one. I was alone, and the cause? I chose the life of a recluse by detaching myself from those who genuinely care. I allowed my insecurities to flood my brain with nonsense lies about how unworthy I am of the love and compassion others can provide. Everyone may not always be there, but someone can be if given the opportunity to do so. So, please, with all of your strength, reach out to someone and/or reach out to me. You do not have to feel alone anymore, and most importantly, you do not have to cut anymore. My last cut was three years ago. You can do it too. You are worthy, and I care.