I began to injure after my mothers death. It seemed like an easy option. My mother had been the only one I felt I could trust through out my whole entire childhood, after living with a string of family members and foster homes I was searching for any way out. I found injuring myself made me not so invisible, a little more loved, I felt like in an uncontrollable world I could make a little sense, injuring myself was a sacred act that I could do freely.

My grades dropped, I skipped class. I would sit in the bathroom injure myself. I felt like I could bring my mother back with each mark I made, each scar was not a stigma but a battle scar, something to be proud of.

the truth was, I was just sad, and injuring understood me, it held me up. I would go to lunch, a little happier, knowing that underneath my sweater was my own shame and it was real, which meant I was real.

Now it has been almost four years, and I am almost twenty, I still injure once in awhile but my anxiety is under control. I am engaged to the sweetest man in the world, and he loves me. I have learned that when I injure it hurts not only myself but the people around me, my best friends feel it. I have learned to control it and soon, I know I won’t need it anymore. there is hope, and one day, you will know it too. I can’t promise that the pain won’t always be there

I will miss my mom everyday

and I can’t promise that the feeling won’t be there, I will probably always walk by the tool section and feel that familiar tightness in my chest. We are not crazy, we are not different, we just are and I know that one day, everything will be okay.