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A Different Kind of Fix (Self-Mutilation)

Lady Macaiodh

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[COLOR=darkblue][size=1]This story is not about me, but it's not exactly fiction, either. Millions of people all over the world suffer from this addiction.[/size]

[center][b]A Different Kind of Fix[/center][/b]

My counselors always ask me why I do it, so I came up with a good metaphor. It?s easier that way. The metaphor disguises it, makes it not as bad.

?It?s kind of like a volcano,? I say. ?Pressure builds and builds until the surface bursts and lava pours out. The surface is the skin. The lava is the blood.? The counselors seem to understand this. They really don?t, though, which is why my parents are always getting me new ones.

The worst part about changing counselors or going to a new clinic is taking pictures of the scars that cover my body. One reason they take the pictures is to see how bad I?ve gotten. Another is to make sure they?ll know if I cut myself again. My parents have dragged me through this so many times, though, that I always figure out ways to hide it. For instance, I re-open old wounds instead of creating fresh ones.

I?m a little worried about this new clinic, though. It has a psychiatric ward. I could get green-warranted. If that happens, I won?t be allowed to be alone. I?ll have to shower and piss with someone watching. They could even put me in a straightjacket. Why are they doing this to me? It?s not like I?m trying to open a vein when I cut myself. I just need the physical pain to keep from going crazy, that?s all.

I?ve tried to stop, I really have. Does everybody think I want these scars all over my flesh? Is it my fault that I?m burdened with more pain than a human being can bear?

Today at check in, they found the straight razors I?d hidden in the lining of my suitcase. I watched, shaking, as they threw my little ones in the trash. Since I just got here, the counselors are going to give me another chance.

As soon as I get to my room, I rip up a corner of the carpet. I use my fingernails to pry one of the staples out of the floorboards, and use the pointy end to stab into the inside of my forearm. As I drag the metal through my skin, the blood leaks out. I can almost see the pressure and the pain leaking out with it. It rises into the air like steam, and disappears for a while longer.
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[COLOR=royal blue] I know this happens to many people in real life and that people may agree with it or may completely be against it but, all I'm saying is, for something you wrote yourself, it's very good. I'm serious. If this story were continued in a book, I would most likely read it. :)
Just seems interesting to me; that's all I'm saying, nothing more.
Also, I've never read anything that had to do with this before.[/COLOR]
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Yea, it's not something often written about, or talked about for that matter, I think people would much rather not believe that people can actually be like that, but I know they certainly can.

You wrote that VERY well, even though it seemed simple enough in style, the point came through, the urgency, relief shame, possibly helped by personal experiences, but it was quite clear to me the emotion wrapped up in the story, quite marvellous, Bravo Bravo *clap clap*.
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