Of Bleeding

by thebirdieflies

Dear Future Me

I have never been able to explain to anyone why I used to cut myself a few years ago.

There have been people who react immediately, who rush to tell me that I am mad, who never even listen beyond the first sentence. They think I am suicidal.

There have been people who just let me be. They know that I am not mad, and that is where the problem ends for them. They don’t think I am suicidal.

There have been people who don’t think I’m suicidal, and even if they hear me out, they refuse to see why I ever did that. They treat me with kid gloves, afraid that I will take to it again.

But everyone forgets eventually.
They let me be.
They stop talking of suicide helplines after a while, they stop telling me to visit a psychiatrist, a parent, a counsellor. They accept it as something that is beyond their comprehension, something whose rationale will forever evade them.
I accept it as something that no one will understand.

I have tried to understand why I do it. I suppose it began because I was seeking attention. From whom?
I suppose I cut myself once, twice, five times, ten times, because I wanted to see how far I could go. I didn’t want to attract trouble, only attention.
Over a period, it became a tool, that I would use whenever I was immensely depressed or immensely angry. It would distract me from my misery, it would shock me out of my self-pity. I still have no qualms using it. I control it, it will only go as far as I want it to go and I know how far to not go. Because, really, I am not suicidal. Suicide as a means of escape was a route that I had long ago given up on.

That will be all for now.

Past Me


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