A Rare Addiction

This short story is a realistic fiction. It briefly walks through a young girls life and her battle with self injury.

                "Tara, open the door...Tara..?" I heard my mother call into the bathroom. I was incapable of moving.  I lie in a pool of my own blood. This wasn't supposed to happen...this never happens. I hear my mother call to my father to help break down the door as I slowly drift away.

                I started cutting when I was twelve years old. It started off as something I had seen on TV and started experimenting with when I got angry. My biggest fear about self injury was the fear of being caught, but afterwhile, I realized no one noticed because no on expected that from me. Apparently the bright red cuts, neatly lining my arm wasn't visible to the rest of the world like it was to me and that was just a trigger to keep doing it.

                After a couple months of cutting, I reached out to a family friend. She made me a deal that if I stopped cutting, she would not bring it up to my mother. This sounded good at the time, but of course I found another reason to cut because in all reality- I wanted my mother to know. I wanted her to know the pain I was going through. She needed to understand what life had become for me.

                The help I needed was received and I went two years without cutting. I was fourteen when I started up again and this time I really did not want anyone to know. This time it was bad. I kept glass in my locker so that I could cut in the middle of school, it was in my purse when I went to the movies and attended hockey games so that I could cut whenever. This time around it was more then just cutting. It was biting, burning, and scratching...anything to feel the physical pain and ignore the emotional pain.

                Although this episode lasted longer, it came to an end the same way. The only difference was this time, I reached out to no one: I didn't want help. A teacher noticed and put a friend on watch. That friend then caught me in the act again and her and the teacher called my mother. I should've known something was up the day my mother came to one of my basketball games...

                I went the rest of my high school career cutting every few months or so. People do not understand that it is a hard addiction to break. Even though I still slipped up I was proud of myself because at least it wasn't a casual thing anymore. I don't know how I let life get me to this point again. I felt the urge to cut and decided to cut on my stomach instead so it could be easier to hide.

My mistake.

Now, hear I am, lying on the cold tile, listening to my mothers cries on the other side of the door thinking to myself...at least it doesn't hurt.

Reviews

[Girl With A Pen]

This is a sad story. You really know how to invoke emotion. Good read! :)