Sound.

I hate you; hate you so much that I love you, too much.

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1. Cut. *

I could hear the sound, the sound so loud. So loud it was, loud enough that I could not hear myself think. Think these thoughts that I thought mattered at that moment, but the reality was that they did not matter. The sound made me. Yeah, I really don’t know. It made me unaware of myself and the world around me. The sound was horrifying, it crippled slowly under my skin. It forced itself down. I should have felt something, but I did not. How could something that sharp make me feel nothing, something forcing itself into me, into someone, into someone that has emotions and a body with nerves all around? It should have been awfully painful, but it really wasn’t. It went down, almost through my bones and broke me. Literally broke me. It ruined my skin and left me, it left me with nothing. The sound was me breaking. I cried, cried because I had died. I died within my heart, myself. I was shattered, I was saved. I only knew the girl that was gone. My emotions where emotional. How deep can you get? Deep enough, I guess. Not that I cared, I didn’t care about anything in that moment, the moment that I broke. Broke down, felled down on my knees, to the floor so cold, cold that I started shivering and feeling alone. So alone, even though I had everyone around me, people that I cared for. Cared, and they loved me and still do. How could I have been so low, that something like a sound could break me, me that person that was so hard-skinned? So unbelievably strong and a true fighter, how? I mean, I should have fought, fought the sound or well I can say the knife now. Why think this thought, why hold it, why do it, why, just why? The “why?” was too much at the time, I could not coup the thought of “why?” So I did not think, that’s why the thought did not matter. Deep down I did not want them, I did not want myself to think that I thought it was wrong to do this. I thought I was wrong, but did it anyway. Now you are probably thinking, what this girl is talking about… Then I say, I am talking about me. The wreck I was, and who I still am. Who? Who is me, that’s the big question.  And the answer I do not have. I am me. And me is me. Myself, I and well… all that follows. I am talking about hurting me. Hurting myself. Hurting yourself in a way that you guys don’t understand, unless you have been there. Deeply down, down where you cannot think, you cannot stop yourself, you just... do it.

There is no one, no one that understands. You only understand, if you have done it. Tried it, tried it just once or more than once. The feeling when you take control. Fully control of you. Unstoppable. the feeling of power. The power of you. Take in your hands, and holding something sharp, a sharp life changing object. Something that can get you addicted to and knowing that. It scares you, but not that much that you actually care. You care so much that you just stop caring. Confusing, but you stop. The feeling of when you get to that moment where you put the knife on your skin, the coldness of that fills you up. In a good way, you think. The feeling when you finally get to the point you slice. Slice yourself up. Into your skin and that’s when you are the creator of your own destruction. Deep you cut, but not too deep. You know that will get messy, but you think to do it…but not. Feeling out of place, having no place in your own body, feeling getting away from everything, cause you can’t stay. Stay in you. Wanting nothing at all, but wanting everything. Not sure what it is that you want, because you want something that you do not want.  It is amazing what we can do to make ourselves disappear. Disappear to places in the dark of yourselves. The darkest places, the places that you do not want to go. You hate it, you hate that you do this, but you don’t think about you are doing so, you just do it. You can’t coupe the thought of being in yourself with the pain that fills you up, so that you are not even you, the pain is you. Into the trap again you go. Feeling for once you are not burning inside, burning with pain, but getting it out. Bleeding it down, you love that. You love the sight of the redness slowly running down your old pain, your scars. Your arm, your thighs, your body in all. That’s the best of it all, seeing that. Not the actual doing, but the sight of the pain coming out. Relived you feel.

“stop doing this, stop yourself, stop cutting it is not that hard”, there is no one, no one that knows how hard it actually is and how many powers that it takes not to hurt yourself. I was slowly freaking out. Trapped inside myself and no one noticed that. No one even noticed me in the class, at home or at least I thought no one did. No one saw me in the world, I was fighting for the stranger in me, in me who needed to come out. When you first do it, when you take the thought of the unbelievable and turn it into reality it is really hard to stop. You really never do, you stop for a moment...few days, month’s, maybe years, but you fall back. Back to the sound of yourself breaking, the darkness and you. It is hard. Damn hard that you stop thinking about it. You do. Everything that surrounds you is pain, at least that is what you think there is, only that. No one understands, you say, you think. They don’t and truth be told they don’t. They, the people that see you as a psycho, crazy person. That look you get, you feel even worse about it, about yourself. So you do it again. But you say you feel fine, that amazingly power that saying you are fine, but the reality is that you don’t. You are not even close of being fine. Who thinks that the most amazing, this beautiful young adorable and loving girl is so deep down that she can’t even see it herself, so depressed, scared and insecure girl. So out of it. Do you get it now. Do you? I don’t think so. The feeling of this sharpness excites you in a way that nothing else douses. Nothing else matters. The feeling getting of that feeling. Feeling that runs fast, so fast through your body. You are thinking of this. This fills you’re daily life more than anything, but you still hate the thought of it. Hating is what you do. Only pain and hate. It hurts you, hunts your mind through the night. Can’t sleep, you lay down and just don’t close your eyes. Scared you see the pain instead of feeling it. So you don’t sleep. You do not want it. So you are tiered, every day. You ask yourself so many questions, douse anyone care? Care. A big word. Words fill. Fill too much. I pretended to be queen, queen of myself. Frustration and the tears. Longing of wanting to stop. The strength that you just don’t have. Everything doesn’t matter. The longing to do it, to hurt, to create, to take pain out is always there. You think about stopping, but you don’t the whole point is to say no. no yourself… never douse work. How? Why? Is not around. Then hear you are again. Always.

Even the word “cutting” scares me. Angst and feeling sorry. The thought makes me unstable, wanting to vomit, throw up. Sick. Sick of it all. Hating me for writing all of this down, couse now I have the thought of doing this again. But I can’t. That’s right I don’t. Don’t do “it” anymore, well. I lied there. There was my dark moment again. The inner cutter saying I’m fine. I do this, but not so much. Only when I need. Needing this is like needing drugs. It is a drug. I do this when feeling incredible down, so down that normal people douse not go. I have not done this in almost 5 months and I’m proud of that, and I’m saying “never give up on who you want to be and what you need for yourself” Keep on fighting… I know you can. I can.

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