Perks of Being a Wallflower
I'm damaged, but probably not wise.

I'm damaged, but probably not wise. If I were, then I probably shouldn't be here anymore, right?

A space where I can tell the truth
Major trigger warning prior to reading this post.
This is my life story, and it may not be for all.


I was 16 when I did my first cut. I was a college freshman and I could still remember the situation- it was a chemistry class, I've failed several quizzes in a row and had no idea how to pass the next quizzes either. I was feeling low, desperate, frustrated. I needed control. I felt like I was breaking down, that my whole world was falling apart. I could feel the need to just scream at everything to fall back into place.

But nothing.

Nothing ever really did since then. So, I went home, feeling like the failure that I was, feeling the need to be punished for being such. I used a needle to scrape my skin. It stung, but it didn't draw blood. It looked so bright on my skin. It looked wrong, painful, beautiful. So I did it again, and again. It took a while before My seat mate started to notice. Not only the cuts, but my withdrawal as well. She called me a masochist. But I never stopped.

I passed the subject eventually, but cutting has already turned into a habit. I've always been easy to tick off. I've been in trouble multiple times for being quick to anger and to attack. This time, I drew that rage towards myself. I've learned to cut when I fail other people. Funny thing is I also cut when they fail me. Needles soon turned to razors, cutters, pocket knives. Cuts at one point became inadequate as well. I was burning, pill-popping, smoking, drinking. I was out of control and my world was spiraling towards even more failure. But I guess that was just inside my head because as broken as I felt inside, I was ok on the outside. Apart from the never healing wounds on my wrists and the occasional feats I have in school, I was still me. I was funny, motherly, average, functional. Little did they know, I've started thinking about suicide. I've stolen a bottle of aspirin from my uncle for safe keeping in case the world gets too much. I secretly took my grandma's pain medications when she broke her ribs, I was spending most of my allowance buying my self pain killers and antidepressants. I was popping 2 or 3 doses more than I need to. The self hate kept growing. At one point, I stared at the mirror and just saw a fucking pig. I starved myself after that. Literally hated food for a month. And when I felt like I wasn't losing enough, I ended up throwing up after binge eating. I had no idea who I was anymore. I felt like a ghost just floating through everyday without an ounce of drive to keep on living. I may have been breathing but I was dead. I still had the shallow cuts on my arms, now with the occasional ice burns and the way too many cuts on my thighs (my left arm was being to obvious and the space was no longer enough), I had mouth sores from all the purging, I lost 10-15lbs in a month, and my family said


They practically told me to keep dying and to keep suffering. So I did. Some people at school did notice: the smell of blood when I give into my urges as school, the cutters, pocket knives, my need for pills. They wanted to help, and a part of me wanted help. But they all said the same thing.


I mean, are you fuckin' mad? How could I stop that few things that keep me moving and prevents me from falling apart. I then realized, that though they may have good intentions, they just don't understand. Nobody probably ever would. I hid myself even more after that. At one point, I completely stopped cutting at my wrists in the desperation to keep my secret safe. I'd carved words on my thigh to remind me of stuffs like 'control', 'fat', 'ugly', 'loser', 'I want to die', and all those other shit that randomly pop into my head. My self loathe kept growing so as my hate for the rest of the world. I felt so alone, so different, so wrong. I could feel everybody's judging eyes on me: my flabby arms, my ugly elbows, my big pores, my dark eyes, my big tummy, my shapeless breasts, my hairy legs, my dirty feet. I was in constant distress about how I could hide everything. I couldn't trust anyone, I couldn't keep any friends, I was preoccupied with self destructive thoughts, I've completely given up on living.

A friend of mine, Precious probably got me more than anyone else I know. She's probably the one who successfully got closest to the truth. She knew the wrongness in my cutting but knew better than to take my only outlet away. It was senior year, college. 3-4years since I've started on this cutting shit. She gave me a journal and that was when I realized: there are no longer any good thoughts left in my head. I tried to write of something good, and ended up with nothing. So, the journal became my whining book. The place where my honesty could turn into something more than just jumbled thoughts. They were in paper. I had it for a couple of months,


Graduation day. No wonder everybody was acting weird. Why my parents were being too affectionate, why they notice my little, innocent looking scars, why my brother knew that Aspirin could be a tool for suicide. That night, my sister told me: they found my journal. And I still hate her for it. I'd probably be hating her for the rest of my life.

Because. Nothing has changed. I'm still the self destructive, pill popping, self injurer that I was 10 years ago. I guess the real question is



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