“I have a problem, but I’m afraid to tell anyone.” Every night, before I went to bed, I used to repeat these words in my head. I kept hoping that if I said them to myself long enough, I might be able to say them aloud someday. However, I used to be such a coward, that I could not even imagine coming clean while in the presence of another human. Two years ago, I had an addiction to cutting myself. I used to get this unbelievably pure thrill from slicing my vulnerable, delicate skin with sharp scissor blades. It sounds sick now, but back then it was what I lived and breathed.
My friends taught me the mechanics of being “emo”, or someone who cuts them self for fun. They told me to shut my eyes and focus all of my anger and bitterness to one patch of skin, and then to punish it as if it had caused all of my problems. Of course, like any nerdy sixth grader, I obeyed what the cool kids told me. Once I got started, however, I did not need anyone to prompt me to keep going. I got addicted to cutting faster than someone gets addicted to drugs. I began to despise my family because they did not understand what I was going through, but I began to adore my emo friends because they completely understood me. I became so cool and mysterious at school, while I turned into a monster at home.
There is a time when every addict gets caught, and that time came for me too. It happened to me two months before the end of school, when I got called to the Counselor’s Office. I knew immediately that this had to be about my cutting addiction, and it was. Ms. Carlisle, the Counselor, told my parents everything. I will never forget that look of undignified horror on my parents’ faces as they listened to Ms. Carlisle’s story. I will also never forget that feeling of my heart being ripped out of my chest, at the sight of my mother breaking down into tears. At that moment, I fully comprehended the severity of my actions. For the first time in four months, I saw the demon implanted inside of me deteriorate. The real I, the girl who used to be so independent and strong, came back. That look of utter hopelessness on my mother’s face brought me back into reality.
I have now fully recovered with the wonderful support of my forgiving family. They have been so remarkably understanding and helpful, and they have done everything in their power to help me recover. I would probably be dead by now if they had not been there for me. This is why I believe that those strangers you call friends will come and go, but your family will always catch you when you fall.
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