I want to say I don't blame them. I honestly do, but I'm not sure I can. It feels like it would be the right thing to do – not blame others for things that seem to be my problems. But I can't help it. They're the ones who told me all along I was born this way, I was born defected. How can I not blame the ones who told me for so many times I was born evil? The ones who call me all these horrible names, like "hoer"? I can't remember the last time I believed in myself. Why should I need people to believe in me? Why can't I be the first one to believe in myself? I want to believe I'm a good person, or at least that I could be one, or better…

All sort of experts say hurting ourselves is a way to escape. Perhaps they are right, but I'm not objective enough to see things clearly. All I see is that I hurt myself, 'cause it hurts so much inside, but people can't see it, and I can't tell them "Hey! People! I'm hurt!", and I'm tires of crying and shouting. Do I need to cry in order to make people realize I'm hurt? I seek for help, and the bruises and cuts are my way of asking for help. In a way it's "See? I'm hurt! This is visible! Now, that you can see, help me…" The only problem is that once they see, they think the things that bleed are the things that hurt, and need to be taken care of. Sometime I just want to scream "Can't you see these things heal in time? There might be scars left, but time will heal these wounds. Help me heal my other wounds…"

So many times I hear that "time heals everything". I wonder if that really is true. Will I really heal from all these things I feel one day?

Sometimes I cut myself just to make sure I really do bleed. I need to make sure I'm still alive, and that it is blood that's running through my vanes. At times, I don't feel human; I don't feel myself at all. At times, I wonder if I really do exist, and that there really is a body behind all this pain.

I can't remember the last time I didn't wish to be someone else. Not anybody else, but not someone specific. I'm not stupid; I know things could have been worse. And yet, I can't help wishing I was someone else.

I remember the first time I bled not by accident. It was when I was at my grandparents. As usual, I had a fight with my dad. Then I saw this shiny little thing on the floor. I began pressing it to my hand, and drawing a line. Not so long after, I realized the line was no longer imaginary. I had a red line on my hand; red line of blood. At some point my father saw the blood and asked me what I did it with. I showed him the little shiny object I found. It was a piece of glass. Since then I was terrified of blood. For years, when I felt the need to hurt myself, I drew instead. Afterwards I found a new way of hurting myself in a way they'd notice: I didn't eat for days. I just stopped eating. Then I also got obsessive about my looks, and not eating made me thin, and I didn't like myself anyway. I just stopped eating for days, jut for the sake of it. I didn't make myself bleed intentionally again 'till I was about seventeen; I had a huge fight with my father. I didn't want to die, but I wanted him to realize how badly he hurts me, so I just grabbed a mechanical pencil. I was going for the wrist, but I was too afraid. I went for the back of my hand instead, it seems less painful. I scratched the whole back of my hand with the pencil, so hard, till it literally broken. I had nothing more to use in order to hurt myself. My hand was bleeding. I remember it hurt when I was taking a shower for a month or so… I remember people starring at my hand when I was at public places. That was the last time the back of my hand was scratched so intensively. There are still marks, but they're not so visible. I don't really remember hurting myself again that year. Between the ages of eighteen and nineteen I didn't really hurt myself. I was still afraid of going for the wrist, but also afraid of the stares. I made a mark or two only now and then. I don't think there were more than three at a time. Still the marks where made on the back of my hand. Only I found new ways of making those marks. I used pens, keys, and pins from a fastener.

Then I got to the age of nineteen. The fights became bigger and uglier. Three marks could not match the pain people could not see. The fear of stares got over the fear of the pain. I cut myself at the wrist for the first time. I used a pin of a fastener in order to do so; just scratched myself as hard as I could. It bled… my wrist was filled with red lines of blood. For the first time since I can remember hurting myself, it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all!

But now, after been said and done, one realizes the only thing accomplished by these cuts is a constant memory of all these bad scenarios in my life. I'll always remember each mark and its cause…