When most people look at me, they see a happy-go-lucky nerd girl. They see a frizzy-haired, four-eyed, smiling-faced sweetheart. They see the me that I want them to see.
They see my mask.
What they don't see is a cutter. They don't see the two-inch scars that I inflicted upon myself. They don't see razor blades and blood. They don't see a girl who was sexually assaulted, witnessed her father's suicide attempt at four years old, and faced life as an army brat. Most just see the happy girl. Most don't see the scars.
A few do see the scars. Most don't, but a few do. My step-mother, best friend, and sister among them. It's because of these people that the scars are fading.
And the scars ARE fading. I haven't cut myself in six months. And before my relapse over summer, I hadn't cut in a year. I don't plan to cut again.
But it is tempting. Cutting is an addictive behavior. And I think that, no matter how long I go without a relapse, I will always consider myself a recovering cutter, much as an drug addict who has been clean three years is still a recovering drug addict.
But I am clean for almost six months, and I dare say I will be clean for the rest of my life. I remember the day that I saw my old razor, hidden in my composition notebook, and threw it away without a second thought. With any luck, I will never pick another up.