PoisonedRazorBlades
June 27th, 2011, 09:20 PM
Okay. I know that I've been on this site for a few years now, and that I've probably made an introduction already, but I started up a new online blog, and my introduction on that explains me so well that I wanted to share it with everyone on here. I felt that the introductions category was the best place to post it and so I'll post it here. I'm sorry if I'm wasting anyone's time, and since this is so long, I don't really expect people to read it. If you do though, then thank you. This is my introduction.
I'm a Scottish female and go by PoisonedRazorBlades. You can call me Morgan, or any variation of my username that you can think of. I've always hidden things from those around me. This blog will be the change in me. This will be the first time in which I'm completely honest about every thought and emotion I have. I will admit some things that I've not admitted to myself, and hopefully I can accept them.
I'm a self harmer, and I have been for years. I don't do it for attention, and I never have. I used it as a release - a crutch - from emotions that I kept bottled up. It gave me control over something in my life that I was rapidly losing control over. I haven't had a horrible childhood, it was actually really good. I'm an only child and my parents love me to pieces. I've always had good friends that are there for me. This may make me seem like an utter selfish bitch, maybe I am. After all, why would someone hurt themselves and hide it from the people that care about them rather than just talk through the problem? Well I couldn't talk through the problem. I tried. I really did, but every time I tried to tell anyone how I really felt, I just couldn't say it. I told them about the surface problems. The issues that were there, but they were the ones that I could have handled without too much trouble. I done this so they thought they knew what was wrong to a degree. I would tell them deeper worries and fears if I had a nervous breakdown, but never before, and never after. I only spoke of it in the time of the breakdown. Depression is an illness that most of my family has suffered through. Maybe its genetic. Either way, I think I was depressed, but I didn't go to the doctor about it. I didn't want my mum knowing. I didn't want that on my health record. So I suffered in silence, and used self harm to get me through the days.
As I've said, I used the self harm as crutch and it helped. I had found the cure to all my bottled up troubles. I had a way to silence the inner voice that worried constantly. I was able to cut my body into how I wanted it in a way, and though I didn't lose weight with it (of course), and I was left with scars, my self image increased because I had total control of those defining scars. I still hate how I look, but I love my scars. I'm not ashamed of them. As long as nobody knew then they couldn't get hurt. What you don't know doesn't harm you, isn't that right? I kept it to myself, only confessing this weakness in my breakdowns. Other than that, everything was alright. It was working out. Or was it?
The emotional crutch turned to obsession, an unhealthy addiction. I craved the feel of the blade and the sting the cuts would leave of my skin for days. I kept at least two blades in a box (one of the ones that necklaces come in - they were hidden under the cardboard the necklace would be on) in the drawer of my bedside table. A friend of mine took the blades and binned them and I'm not proud to say that I attacked her. Properly attacked her. All she could do was defend herself. I felt awful afterwards, and I still do to an extent, but I was so angry then. How dare she take them from me? They were all I had. I began cutting my legs because nobody would notice then. I could go out in public without people seeing my mutilated body and judging me for it. It was a body that I loved and hated all at once. My cutting became a daily thing. I would cut at least once a day, and despite being shallow cuts, some would scar and there would be at least ten covering an area of about 2inches squared at the top of my thighs. On average, I'd say that there was at least 40 cuts on my legs on any given day. I would cut my shoulders and cut my stomach at times as well. The endorphins that were released, the familiar motion, the lingering sting. All of this became my life source. It was breathing. It was my herion. It was what I lived for and its all that I thought about it. It was the only reason I was able to get out of bed in the mornings, and I needed to cut before I could sleep well. I got counselling and I stopped my daily cutting. That killed me. I would sob because I had stopped, but I couldn't give in knowing that my friends and family would be so hurt knowing how weak I was. So I stopped. I relapsed a couple of times, but I managed to last months battling the cravings and winning against them.
My weight was another issue. I've always been slightly overweight, and with the media showing these thin, tiny women, I began to feel fatter and uglier as the days went on. I couldn't stick to a diet no matter how hard I tried and I started feeling more disgusting about it and hating myself more for being too weak to stop it. I fell into denial and ignored the weight gain. All my friends are slim. The largest of them is still smaller than the average female. I felt huge and repulsive next to them. I hated them for having more control than me. I hated their metabolisms and I began to hate going anywhere with them. Shopping was the worst. They would buy all these small, beautiful clothes that would never fit me. I was jealous to the point where I wondered if I'd be better off without them. One of my friends' has body issues. She hates her body, but is still smaller than the average woman, and is still beautiful and slim. When she would complain to me about how she felt fat I hated her. I loathed her and became bitter towards her. If she was fat then what did that make me? I felt that she would think of me as this huge, overweight, disgusting creature and if my friends could think that of me then what did strangers see? Was I one of these people you see in public and vow to never turn out like? I never developed an eating disorder, I was too weak to try. I liked food too much to give it up and I didn't want to purge because it would damage my teeth and make me uglier, wouldn't it? So what was I to do?
This is the point of my life where I am just now. An addiction to self harm and the mental state of someone with an eating disorder. This is me, and I know that I'm not alone. Yet I won't tell the people I know, because they'll try to change me. This is what I need to get through the days, and I can't fall into that empty hollow shell of a person that I was when the depressed loomed over me. This is how I stay human, and its how I suffer as one.
I'm a Scottish female and go by PoisonedRazorBlades. You can call me Morgan, or any variation of my username that you can think of. I've always hidden things from those around me. This blog will be the change in me. This will be the first time in which I'm completely honest about every thought and emotion I have. I will admit some things that I've not admitted to myself, and hopefully I can accept them.
I'm a self harmer, and I have been for years. I don't do it for attention, and I never have. I used it as a release - a crutch - from emotions that I kept bottled up. It gave me control over something in my life that I was rapidly losing control over. I haven't had a horrible childhood, it was actually really good. I'm an only child and my parents love me to pieces. I've always had good friends that are there for me. This may make me seem like an utter selfish bitch, maybe I am. After all, why would someone hurt themselves and hide it from the people that care about them rather than just talk through the problem? Well I couldn't talk through the problem. I tried. I really did, but every time I tried to tell anyone how I really felt, I just couldn't say it. I told them about the surface problems. The issues that were there, but they were the ones that I could have handled without too much trouble. I done this so they thought they knew what was wrong to a degree. I would tell them deeper worries and fears if I had a nervous breakdown, but never before, and never after. I only spoke of it in the time of the breakdown. Depression is an illness that most of my family has suffered through. Maybe its genetic. Either way, I think I was depressed, but I didn't go to the doctor about it. I didn't want my mum knowing. I didn't want that on my health record. So I suffered in silence, and used self harm to get me through the days.
As I've said, I used the self harm as crutch and it helped. I had found the cure to all my bottled up troubles. I had a way to silence the inner voice that worried constantly. I was able to cut my body into how I wanted it in a way, and though I didn't lose weight with it (of course), and I was left with scars, my self image increased because I had total control of those defining scars. I still hate how I look, but I love my scars. I'm not ashamed of them. As long as nobody knew then they couldn't get hurt. What you don't know doesn't harm you, isn't that right? I kept it to myself, only confessing this weakness in my breakdowns. Other than that, everything was alright. It was working out. Or was it?
The emotional crutch turned to obsession, an unhealthy addiction. I craved the feel of the blade and the sting the cuts would leave of my skin for days. I kept at least two blades in a box (one of the ones that necklaces come in - they were hidden under the cardboard the necklace would be on) in the drawer of my bedside table. A friend of mine took the blades and binned them and I'm not proud to say that I attacked her. Properly attacked her. All she could do was defend herself. I felt awful afterwards, and I still do to an extent, but I was so angry then. How dare she take them from me? They were all I had. I began cutting my legs because nobody would notice then. I could go out in public without people seeing my mutilated body and judging me for it. It was a body that I loved and hated all at once. My cutting became a daily thing. I would cut at least once a day, and despite being shallow cuts, some would scar and there would be at least ten covering an area of about 2inches squared at the top of my thighs. On average, I'd say that there was at least 40 cuts on my legs on any given day. I would cut my shoulders and cut my stomach at times as well. The endorphins that were released, the familiar motion, the lingering sting. All of this became my life source. It was breathing. It was my herion. It was what I lived for and its all that I thought about it. It was the only reason I was able to get out of bed in the mornings, and I needed to cut before I could sleep well. I got counselling and I stopped my daily cutting. That killed me. I would sob because I had stopped, but I couldn't give in knowing that my friends and family would be so hurt knowing how weak I was. So I stopped. I relapsed a couple of times, but I managed to last months battling the cravings and winning against them.
My weight was another issue. I've always been slightly overweight, and with the media showing these thin, tiny women, I began to feel fatter and uglier as the days went on. I couldn't stick to a diet no matter how hard I tried and I started feeling more disgusting about it and hating myself more for being too weak to stop it. I fell into denial and ignored the weight gain. All my friends are slim. The largest of them is still smaller than the average female. I felt huge and repulsive next to them. I hated them for having more control than me. I hated their metabolisms and I began to hate going anywhere with them. Shopping was the worst. They would buy all these small, beautiful clothes that would never fit me. I was jealous to the point where I wondered if I'd be better off without them. One of my friends' has body issues. She hates her body, but is still smaller than the average woman, and is still beautiful and slim. When she would complain to me about how she felt fat I hated her. I loathed her and became bitter towards her. If she was fat then what did that make me? I felt that she would think of me as this huge, overweight, disgusting creature and if my friends could think that of me then what did strangers see? Was I one of these people you see in public and vow to never turn out like? I never developed an eating disorder, I was too weak to try. I liked food too much to give it up and I didn't want to purge because it would damage my teeth and make me uglier, wouldn't it? So what was I to do?
This is the point of my life where I am just now. An addiction to self harm and the mental state of someone with an eating disorder. This is me, and I know that I'm not alone. Yet I won't tell the people I know, because they'll try to change me. This is what I need to get through the days, and I can't fall into that empty hollow shell of a person that I was when the depressed loomed over me. This is how I stay human, and its how I suffer as one.