This routine continues.
Punish. Punish. Repeat.
I find myself doing it more often, harder.
Sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Hopelessness. Guilt. This is all my fault. Thoughts torment me. This isn't my homemade hell anymore. I want to get out. I can't. I try. I can't. The silence is tormenting. I have to remain silent. I can't let them see me for who I truly am. The demons hurl thoughts to me every second of the day. I don't have the strength to combat them anymore. I just sit there and take it. And hurt.
There is nobody that can feel this pain. My brightly painted nails can't satisfy this need for pain anymore. Something a little more sharper. Something that will hurt a little more.
Holding it. Tears streaming down my face. The first time is always the hardest. Just do it.
Before I can do it, an intervention. Someone knows my pain and has felt it. I'm.....not alone anymore? I cry out for help. Pity. Sympathy. Understanding. It wasn't all that hard. I eye the object that I have been coddling in my hand, and throw it across the room. I don't need you anymore.
I see my brightly colored nails, representing my brightly colored self on the outside. I scrape off the color. I don't need you anymore. I realize the pain is still very there. I panic. I can't do this. What am I doing?
My little black book covered in dust sits under a stack of books. They always say that hope comes in the most unlikely places. I decide to try something new to relieve the pain. I pick it up, I read the words.
Hope springs forth.
There's someone who......loves me? Who knows all of me? Who cares for me even though I'm imperfect? There is someone who knows that I'm imperfect and has decided that through my weakness, he is strong? How is this possible? Why had I not looked to this before?
I fall asleep. Peace in my heart. The wounds heal almost overnight. But the pain hasn't gone altogether away.