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I've been thinking on how to approach this memory for a long time. I need to look at it and I need to find someway to let it go. I don't remember exactly when or why I started cutting. That is, I don't remember the initial thought of "hey, why don't I just take this pretty, sharp knife and plunge it into my arm and pull?" I doubt that was the thought but that's how I try and look at it now. Makes the whole thing seem like a bad idea or something.
I remember a few years ago I started cutting just enough for a minor, explainable laceration. There was something about it that made everything else feel better. There was a certain inexplicable joy that would accompany this "transgression against my body which is the temple of god." I had stopped believing in their god for so long that their words of how he was my salvation and the release from my depression were too little too late. I'd been cutting for a very long time when they found out. By that point in time I was so in love with the rush that would bring me up a bit and give me enough of a cling to reality that i could make it through the day. For a while I was too numb to feel that even, those were the worst points in the up-down-up-down that was my psychological state of "well-being."
I'll never forget that day. "This has to be the last time," I told myself. It was my sixteenth birthday and I was shocked that I'd made it that far. I thought for sure I'd no longer be able to hold on that long two years before. Now I'm glad I did. But it wasn't the last time. There have been so many times since then. I've lied and told people 'No, no. They've been there all along. No new scars. Don't worry about me." Lies....
I don't know why but now I find that people who are full of sorrow or seem to be hiding something that hurts them are the most attractive people to me. I suppose there's something beautiful about a breakdown waiting to happen. I always want to be there for that person, to be able to help them pick up the pieces even though, more often than not, they'll disappear out of my life as soon as they've been glued back together. But that's alright.
I am sad that I don't see you much these days, and I am sad that I am missing out on your life, but I was there to help you pick up the pieces and glue them back together. Next year you'll be a new person all over again and the year after that just like you were two years ago after we spent days and days and days gluing the pieces back together.