I wish I never made the first cut, because now I’m addicted. Addicted to the pain it brings. Anxiety, fear, sadness, depression, nothingness, hurt. That’s what goes through the mind of someone when they are about to cut. No I don’t think about the hideous scars on my wrists, I just want to feel relief from all the frustration in my life. Later, after it’s done, I don’t feel regret, I feel shame. Sometimes the shame and disgust of what I’ve done is so bad, that I cut again. I hate getting weak knees, but I know a disturbing way to make it stop. Feeling empty, like you’re nothing, and wanting to know if you’re still alive. Cutting hurts, but at least you feel something. I hide my arms so no one will know. I know if people knew about my cuts I would spend a life time in a councilor’s office, or in a support group. Mistrusting the wrong person can lead to things worse than a couple cuts…