Achluophobia

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This is my story.

Let’s start with the easy stuff.

When I was very young I had two surgeries. One to get my tonsils removed and one to fix my ears because I had gone deaf from continuous ear infections.

I can’t remember my childhood very well but I’ll share what I do remember. I remember riding my bike around the neighborhood, when I was about 10 or so, someone had put up a sign on the side of their house and while I was trying to read it I swerved and smacked into a mailbox. The metal had cut through my favorite stripped shirt and left a small cut. I remember going back home to my sister, who asked me why I was crying. When I told her what happened she laughed at me. Haha, when I look back at that day I always laugh. You’ve got to be pretty uncoordinated to something like that, silly thing is I’m still pretty clumsy. When I was 13 or 14 I was staying with my dad for thanksgiving and playing hide-n-seek with my two younger step brothers and their friends. I ran through the house trying to find a good spot to hide but I only ended up running straight into a wall. The impact had caused my knee to pop out of place. I can’t decide which is more hilarious, running into a mailbox? or running into a wall?

Now, onto the things that are a little more difficult to share.

I am not proud of what I have done or how I’ve hurt so many people on my road to self destruction. However, I am proud of one thing: Recovery. The feeling of finally being able to say that word is indescribable. For years I was a downward spiral, I cut, and cut, and cut until I ran out of clean skin on my arms. Then I moved to  my legs and went all the way to my ankles. After that I didn’t care where I cut or how many other cuts I had to cut over. I had attempted suicide on numerous occasions and each time I felt like a complete failure. At this point I was in and out of psychiatric hospitals, sent there because I was danger to myself. I remember being one of two patients who spent Christmas and New Year’s in the hospital.

When my mother couldn’t take care of me anymore I was sent to live with my father. He had what he called “discipline” which was much more harsh than a simple slap on the hand. After the first day of moving in, I met the girl who lived across from me. She was my first real friend I had had in a long time I felt the need to pour my heart out to her and tell her things that I hadn’t told anyone else. I will always love her for treating me like and actual human. I think I owe her for talking sense into me even if she hadn’t said  it directly.

By the time I entered high school I did not cut anymore, but it wasn’t easy. Soon, I ended up replacing cutting with drugs. I would take any and all pills and wash them down with a swig of cheap alcohol. I felt like the happiest person on earth when I smoked weed for the first time. It all made me forget what I had done to myself. But it only added to my list of self destruction. I let guys use me because it made me feel in control. I felt so powerful when guys would look at me and I knew exactly what they wanted.

My life was a mess.

It’s hard to pin point the exact moment I began to recover. But I look at myself now and smile. I have fought through so much and these scars no longer remind me of bad times but of how far I’ve come. I no longer get upset when people look at my scars or ask ridiculous questions, it is a part of me and if they don’t like it they’re really missing out on a great story.

I owe thanks to so many people who have helped me and I forgive those who have hurt me. When I started typing this I didn’t know what I wanted to get out of this but now that it’s done I know. Simply sharing my story (even this short version) has helped me come to terms with so many things.

For those of you who have taken the time to read this, thank you. If you take anything away from this I want you know that things can get better. Think of something you want to accomplish in the future and hold onto that dream to get you through the long nights. You are welcome anytime to contact me, to share your story, to vent, to ask questions, to get advice, for anything. I will be more than willing to help anyone, no matter what your story is.

You are not alone in this battle.

16 notes

  1. lostdeliriousbutstillliving reblogged this from imjusta-little-depressed
  2. imjusta-little-depressed reblogged this from ppoint-blankk
  3. sleepingwithmiceandparamore said: Sweety, I’m proud of you. :) I love you! <3
  4. ppoint-blankk posted this