Personal Descriptive Essay
When the term ‘self-harm’ is mentioned, of what do you think? Depressing thoughts; suicidal victims? You don’t think of me, do you? Six months ago I would never have dreamed I would have so many scars on my formerly undamaged skin. Now things are different. Now when I look in the mirror I see the evils twisting themselves around my arms. I’ve marred myself trying to bleed them out. They clouded my brain and tainted my bloodstream. There seemed only one way to get them out. It would work and I would be better.
I don’t remember the first time I tried to kill my demon. I do remember when I was at my lowest. My mind was upside down and inside out. No one cared I was dead inside. I had isolated myself so far in the back of my mind that I was actually embarrassed to tell anyone. I couldn’t even tell my best friend how broken I was. I felt that if I had ruined myself then I had to be the one to fix everything. My mother found out a month into the lot, and I became even warier. Four months later and I was wrecked. I knew I needed help, but I kept telling myself I could do this.
In the mind of someone like me, everything is different. There’s a secret agenda that everyone has and fails to share. You feel out of the loop for everything. You’re detached from the world you’ve created for yourself. All you ever think about is getting home to find relief in your trusty demon. You tell him about your day and how awful you feel. He comforts you. ‘Everything’s going to be okay. Just take this.’ He shoves the blade in your hand and guides it across your arms and thighs. ‘Better?’ ‘Yes.’ You can sleep now. You can eat now. Everything is okay again.
Soon it becomes an addiction. Nothing has to happen, but you still pick up that blade. Your demon has taught you well enough to do it on your own. You retrace the lines laid out. Everything goes fuzzy and you get a sort of high. You’re better now, and nothing matters. You don’t eat. You won’t sleep. You don’t care about anything
I don’t remember the first time I tried to kill my demon. I do remember when I was at my lowest. My mind was upside down and inside out. No one cared I was dead inside. I had isolated myself so far in the back of my mind that I was actually embarrassed to tell anyone. I couldn’t even tell my best friend how broken I was. I felt that if I had ruined myself then I had to be the one to fix everything. My mother found out a month into the lot, and I became even warier. Four months later and I was wrecked. I knew I needed help, but I kept telling myself I could do this.
In the mind of someone like me, everything is different. There’s a secret agenda that everyone has and fails to share. You feel out of the loop for everything. You’re detached from the world you’ve created for yourself. All you ever think about is getting home to find relief in your trusty demon. You tell him about your day and how awful you feel. He comforts you. ‘Everything’s going to be okay. Just take this.’ He shoves the blade in your hand and guides it across your arms and thighs. ‘Better?’ ‘Yes.’ You can sleep now. You can eat now. Everything is okay again.
Soon it becomes an addiction. Nothing has to happen, but you still pick up that blade. Your demon has taught you well enough to do it on your own. You retrace the lines laid out. Everything goes fuzzy and you get a sort of high. You’re better now, and nothing matters. You don’t eat. You won’t sleep. You don’t care about anything