Bio-Oil and Self HarmMature

Scars scars scars.

I didn't used to self-harm. I'd like to get that straight. Because it wasn't self harm, was it?

I never ripped the blade from a razor and ran it through my skin (so maybe I tried taking the blade but I watched her do it too and it was just in my mind, I would never have been ale to do it.. as much as they say it's easier and less painful than the stuff I did). I also never.. ripped my skin off with a cheese-grater - like her - nor did I destroy my legs with a saw - like her - nor did I run a compass down that vein/artery in my wrist in a feeble, fake and attention-seeking attempt at suicide.

I.. broke my skin with a compass but I've never counted that. There was only one cut which ever bled and that was not because I'd successfully cut through the skin but because I broke the scar.

I used to try to be  like them. I wanted to self-harm and I couldn't. And the cuts on my side (hidden away where I knew nobody would see unless for some reason I was naked and they were looking at my hip.. which would have been weird - cuts or no cuts) did not even leave scars. No atter how hard I tried I could not bring myself to that level of pain because it did hurt. That is the only thing I can say for myself that brought me close to them: it hurt.
But even with the pain, there was no blood. There was no hiding bloodied sheets or... throwing razors out of the window because that way my mum would never find it or anything like that.

Worst I had were little cuts from the actual attempted self-harm. Actually, the cuts weren't little.. they just weren't deep. At any rate, that was my self harm..

Wait.. no it wasn't. Before that (a little while back.. the reason for getting an absolutely useless shrink who told me I was fine but there was a problem between my mum and I. Because she was bloody Sherlock and all. -.-) (this while being.. ah.. nine months ago.) I used to chicken scratch.. vaguely badly but not.
They used to scab over but there were no.. -looking at the places I did it worst- hang on, there are scars from them actually. But there was no blood because I could never break through the skin because shockingly enough scraping your nail across your skin in just one small area continually for about ten minutes hurts. And as much as it gets deeper and deeper as you do it, I never got through. It would get close and my wincing and general natural defences would stop me.. y'know.. 'cause it hurts.

I remember standing at the top of the stairs and I had compass cuts all over my legs and I'd just shown my mum after she'd said that I wouldn't do what they had. As in, I wouldn't self-harm.

Sidenote, my mum tried to kill herself when she was fifteen. - they say like mother like daughter eh~
Sick sense of humour taken from one of my old self-harmers... I will not take responsibility for that -laughing- -facepalm-

At any rate, that is pretty much the extent of the unbloodied legs and arms of nine months ago and.. whenever the most recent were (not that recent, it wasn't getting me anywhere, I wasn't feeling any better and frankly it was both a waste of my energy and my time.) which were too, pretty much unbloodied.

But then we've got these mozzy bites (oh f*ck it, flea bites. We got infested. F*cking cats -.- they're gone now but still.) all over my legs.

I scratched them, everyone does! But I scratched them till there was stuff coming out of them (not blood) and it got difficult to wear tights (which I still had to do considering I was covered in little 'cuts').
These became scabs and I started ripping these off.

Blood! That made me a lot happier than it should have and honestly, it's really quite disgusting the way I fell in love with it..

It was an obsession. I couldn't help myself. I used to spend hours sitting on the bathroom floor (typically, I think I should make the bathroom floor my bedroom in all honesty) just ripping scabs off my legs and - disgustingly - spreading the blood over my legs..
I'd wait until my mum was in bed so I could walk out in my underwear with 'beautiful'  blood soaking into my skin.

I told my 'beautiful girl' about that. The last time I saw her I mentioned that the bites weren't getting any better and she asked if I was still scratching them - I didn't really answer, I think I might have nodded.

I couldn't help it. I just.. I had to.

I still don't really think of that as self harm mind you. Though I'd always say that it isn't self-harm if there's no blood, does that really mean it is if there is blood?

It was just scabs.

Self-harm or not, it isn't my fault.
I looked up to her.. she was so strong.. she dealt with everything and she still kept a smile on her face (okay, so she tried to kill herself and threatened to kill herself at me.. and threatened me.. and cried in front of me and.. and potentially has multiple personality disorder.. she still always smiled in company..) because it was all about everyone else being happy. Except me I guess.. but I pushed her to hurt me and had I never pushed her.. had I never asked.. I would never have known any of it.. well except...

Anyway.

I looked up to her, I wanted to be strong like her, I wanted to be able to take all the stuff she does/has/did take and still stand tall.
So knowing that she self-harmed..
I wanted to be strong enough..

I wanted to do be able to do it because she could and she was the bravest person I knew..
She still is..

-sigh-

F*ck me I hope nobody knows who I'm talking about...
Well except maybe..
Someone..
Agh.
Shut up.

I looked up to her.
I also wanted to be exactly like another girl.
He dealt with life.. better.. because of it.. when he didn't do it he was sad.. so it made him happy right?
Maybe it could have made me happy.
It made her voices stop! I mean.. There are damn.. voices in my head to an extent.. although, not so much now.. when things were.. as bleak as they were then.. they were always in my head.. back, front, left, right, central - y'know generally everywhere. And still when I look in the mirror and I can see my body.. 

You're sick you're sick you're sick.
Which is funny because that was a text from Will all those years ago which never left my head.
Strange how things stick with you.

Moving on.

A lot of people self-harm okay? It was cool to self-harm. It was 'in'. It made people feel better.. It made people cope better.
I wanted to get over my stupid cowardice and I wanted to cope better.

And then, with the scabs, I just wanted to be covered in blood.

Disgusting I know.

Though.. in all honesty I don't really think it disgusting.. I just know that my mind tells me I should think it disgusting.. but it was me and I haven't really changed so much that I can look back at the me from.. three/four months ago and say that I was disgusting. And mean it anyway..~

The only reason I thought I'd mention all of this is because in three months the scars might be gone.

There never were any scars from the compass but the chicken scratch ones will go and the ripping scabs ones will go I hope.
And therefore, in three months, I might be happy to show my legs again.

A little, slightly belated, birthday present =]

I used to.. love the fact that I had scars.. reminders for one day when I could look and see that I got through it all. All the cr*p I complained about having, I could one day see the scar on my hand and go "yeah, that was an absolutely horrific time in my life but you know what, I'm still alive".
But now I just want them gone. My legs look burnt by a fag, not to mention the massive scratch up the side of my leg from 'gravel' which looks.. well.. horrible.

I want to be able to get my legs out.

And in three months (if this oil stuff works) then maybe I'll be able too..

The End

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