Entries of a Wrist Cutter

These are the entries of a wrist cutter. A self harmer suffering from BPD, borderline personality disorder. The entries include prose and poetry, and are semi-autobiographical.


3. Dead


I was dead.

Opening my eyes to realise I did in fact exist was the most disappointing experience I had ever been through. My heart sank. The weight of the darkness filled my body and mind. Coming to terms with the fact that I was alive and breathing was the most excruciating torment I had ever experienced.

Looking around in a frantic confusion I found myself lost in one thought alone; what the fuck? I exist…

And then I began to wonder; how can I be alive when I was just dead? How could I have opened my eyes when I couldn’t recall ever closing them? I didn’t fall asleep because if I had then I would have felt the consciousness of sleeping. I didn’t dream, I didn’t think and I didn’t feel anything. Not once did I stir to feel the presence of my existence. There was an absolute nothing. No life. I was free of every emotion, every thought, and every constraint.

Now suddenly awake and alive, the disappointment wrapped itself around me like a snake coiling around a small animal, tightly squeezing and smothering its prey. Time seemed to regain its control as the seconds ticked away; passing. How I wished my life to end then and there…

I never knew how depressing listening to classical music and staring at a blank wall could be. My mind was as blank as the white wall. I stared at that wall for hour after hour. The strings of violins sounded, triggering violent thoughts of ferocious cutting. Self mutilation; I craved it… The smell of blood filled my nostrils. The taste lingered in my mouth. The memories were so vivid I could even feel the blade slash across my wrists, legs, stomach. Yet I lay there, so calmly, as if those were thoughts and desires of a peaceful nature.

Immobile; I was immobile. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollably. I never really understood how emotions worked, how they control our actions and thoughts. Impossible it was, to understand why I continued living every day, every bleak day, battered; battered by the tortures of suicidal thoughts. Why did I torture myself so? For what reason, what purpose? I couldn’t ever fully turn my head away from the living, but I could never understand why.

A zombie; I was a zombie, a lifeless walking corpse. The memory of the journey to living dead is now lost somewhere in time. I can’t recall the first day I felt dead inside. I wish I could go over my life like a movie and see where everything changed and I became a self destructive, suicidal wreck. But I can’t do that. So I suffer instead. On a daily basis, I suffer; day in, day out, and every moment in between.

It’s a shame most people don’t see this.

I remember when I was eleven I would sit in the haunted room, the highest and coldest room of the seven storey house that my grandparents had lived in for over thirty years. I remember sitting there listening to depressing music on repeat for hours and hours, day after day. The room wasn’t really haunted. I know that now that I’m old enough to see sense; there is no such thing as ghosts. But as I was growing up I was told that when a room is really cold and damp it’s because it’s haunted. Bullshit.

I spent most of my childhood in that house, and as long as I lived there, not once did I physically harm myself. I was only emotionally scarred, and now I’m physically scarred too. I grew up around fear, but now the only thing I fear is living. It’s hard to live when you’re afraid of letting go and giving yourself the freedom to live.

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