He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he gaze long into the abyss... only to find his own reflection.

Confessions of a Cutter (Self-Harm)

Who are you! Who so takes hold of me? You thing. You idea. You thought. You feeling. You whoever you are. Who are you! Why are you here, in me?

It is you I hate. You hurt me then and now--continuously you hurt me still. You are a nag. A hook. A hold. A plague. A pain deep inside my brain that will not let up.


I've thrown everything at you yet you still hang on--alcohol, drugs, razors. I crashed my car twice for you. I cut my wrists, my arms, my chest, my thighs, my neck, my face, yet still you persist.

Your goal so elusive for so long can only be to cause me to kill myself. Only then will you be happy--but I am not sure of that. Maybe I exist so you exist. Maybe you hate yourself and can only relate to causing hate in me.

I don't know. All I know is the hate that exists in the corner of my mind like a grinning mouth. And you are inside me and the only way I can hurt you is to hurt me. And I want to hurt you, really, really, badly.

Do my cuts hurt you? I hope they do. Is my shame yours? I hope it is.

It does not make sense, I know. But maybe if I cut deeper I will get you. If I become disgusting and horrible maybe you'll go away.

If I can hurt myself more than you ever hurt me maybe you will go away.

You see, I know your scars. They are old--early in my life--in a place where no one will ever see--ever, unless I show them.

And I've been cutting like that for a long time. Did you know that would happen? Do you relish in/at my cuts so like yours?

Or do I cut to re-live in some perverse way those first cuts?

The ramifications of that are to difficult to fathom and my brain shuts down.

Am I crazy?

But I did not do those first cuts to me. Someone hurt me at an early age. Before comprehension of such an act was even possible.

But the thought persists--cutting myself persists.

I am crazy.

Crazy with pain and hurt.

And I don't trust anybody.

Every human being is an enemy.

Writing Down the Pain
I'd like just once to fall asleep feeling good about myself. Just once. Drunken stupors do not count.