The thing about addiction is how much you think it’s okay, but know it isn’t. No matter what you may be addicted to or what you led you to that addiction, as you look at yourself and admit it’s wrong, but say “it just has to be right.” So you do it, that guilty pleasure. It’s hard to get over, but not impossible.

Hi, I’m going to tell you about mine. My blood rush, lure to sleep, also my story on how it’s started and what it’s done to me. The love I have for it, but also hate. How I hate, but love to see the life spring from my skin. My relapse stories, what helps me, how it had really taken over my life and what I have to hide from it; feelings.
No, I’m not addicted to feelings if that’s what you thought, but I guess they led me here. My addiction is actually something that I used to lure me to sleep. I felt human when I did it. I didn’t exactly feel better, but rather human and those crimson droplets reminded me of it. It was my best friend for so long, I didn’t realize then that sometimes who you have as “best friends” shouldn’t really be. But I only had that when nothing else was there. I still always knew it wasn’t okay. Yet I still had nothing else to do than drink the poison from the bottle.

This addiction started because one day I was feeling really gloomy and blue and I didn’t know what to do. Don’t you get it? Probably not but that’s fine. I had the supplies to do it. It was hard at first to bring myself to it, but I did and I liked it. The pain easing me away from my stress. The warmth of the sun I felt on that day. I remember also the birds singing, but to me, it was a song of sorrow, but I enjoyed it so much. I remembered that. Maybe that’s why it started. Because I remember such a great feeling and I wanted to feel it more. But also the pain was there too. I felt like I deserved it. The marks slowly rising like the sun. This was the only thing I knew to do, so I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t think that they could actually help. I was ten years old when I started and I knew that at that point, I would love that hate.

When I was eleven, it wasn’t so persistent. Maybe once every couple weeks. But I went on a full purge the little times I did it. No one knew about them. At the age of twelve, I was, almost every day, feeling that lovely pain. It was easy to get supplies for my fix. My parents found out because I was asleep on the couch and my brother saw those quiet strikes I let on myself. I was shunned even though the opposite of addiction is connection. I was shut out from my own family. That was when I stopped talking and let my lack of presence speak to them. I relied more on internet for socializing. At the age of thirteen, I still continued to see that kissed skin. It wasn’t as common and was in different places. My parents always told me “You have nothing to be depressed about” as they left me and let my siblings tease me, to shun me, to surround me with hate. They made me feel like I was worthless. At the age of fourteen, I at first, wasn’t wanting to do it. I was clean for six months. I was finally able to wear shorts and tanktops, but I went to downhill like it was ice and I was on a sled.

The reason I do this is because of my growing up, as you may have already figured out, and events that traumatized me in the past (events I really wish not to explain). I was bullied into silence and afraid to do anything for a fear of another remark, on social media I was an easy target for comments; being the weird kid and it being known by the school, word spread quickly. My anxiety killed me by day and my depression murdered me by night. All alone in my room, the silence of the world, I felt there was no escape. There was nothing else that I felt that I could do. Later on, my family put me into counceling. Well, actually, I was at the doctors for a check up and she suggested it so my parents agreed. A couple weeks later, I was sitting in my counselor’s office, afraid to talk or tell her anything. I was never comfortable with her. It was a dying pain and it was hard to deal with it. My anxiety was attacking me and even though the room was quiet, it still sounded like a thousand bulls racing across the floor of that small room. They felt so close, but I knew they weren’t there. I knew it wasn’t real at all, but still, being scared as I am, I was always sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for the bulls to come after me so that I can get up and run. I didn’t get why I was there. There was nothing she could do. Depression can’t be cured, not even avoided or forgotten. Anxiety can’t be either. It’s always with you, like a bad memory that you can’t block out, or it’s superglued to you and there is no way to remove it.

Since the counselor didn’t help, I just felt worse. I was hopeless, and ready to just give up. What pushed me over that ledge, was my parents’ divorce. At first I was fine but then, I realized, my dad is the only parents that actually wants to take care of me. My mom has no interest in me and wants nothing to do with me. I felt like I could break down at any second whenever someone talked about my mom. The darkness surrounded me more and more. I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to be depressed, but the depression was a cheetah and I was a gazelle. Just kept coming after me no matter how I tried.  So after the six months of being clean, I got tired of running. I let it get me. Those painful thoughts and feelings came back so I put them on my skin. I thought I wouldn’t be able to go clean again for a while. But I was actually able to quickly shut it down. I didn’t want the pain kissing me anymore. All that hurt, it wasn’t doing anything. I still was in the same situation. My family was still broken, my mom didn’t love me, and no matter how hard I try, nothing can change that.

The thing is, I never took control of it. Before, when I tried to stop, it led to my anxiety terrifying me of contact. ‘What if they found out? What if they don’t like you? What if they are just faking it? You’re really going to do that?’ then my depression started talking ‘You can’t be that stupid. I can’t believe you just did that. It’s better to be a coward than a fool. Learn that. No wonder they don’t like you.’ constant, everlasting thoughts. They stain my brain like rust on old beat up train. Another issue I got was anorexia. I didn’t eat much, but my family started noticing and I didn’t want them to say anything about it. So I forced myself to eat, only to go to the bathroom to puke it up. Bulimia is horrible, but it was easier doing that than not eating.  My mom found out and then she was going to send me to counseling again instead of actually talking to me about it but she never did. I never went to counseling and the habit continued until I moved in with my dad in December of 2015. Within that time, I started that painful habit again. My bulimia was going on for a couple years before my mom found out.
But somehow, me stopping that painful habit now, isn’t the same as before. I don’t feel the same at night. See, all my life, I loved art and music and I’ve always been a loner. I’ve gradually made these things more present in my life. But I never realized how much of a distraction they were to this addiction. I would be secluded in my room, playing music, and painting. I was actually smiling and I liked what I was doing. I was finally doing something I enjoyed. Instead of talking and getting in all the drama, I was just up in my room, doing everything I like to do. I also realized that at night I wasn’t thinking about my mom or my family, but actually art projects, my future I want to have and music. I was actually hopeful. I don’t know what changed all of this, but something did. I guess I’m just finding other ways to cope.

I think about my life now. No, I may not have a loving mother or my protective brother anymore, but I do have a dad who’s loving and protective, my other brother, Wyatt, and a nice step mom. I also have these amazing friends and they are very lovely. As time grew before, I became more and more depressed. Felt like I was going to be hit by a train, but felt better at that thought. The hate surrounded me every day like a boa constrictor to a mouse, just tightening until it was hard to breathe. I would choke on my tears, crying at night, or any time really. Up in my room, all alone and just wishing I could reach out for help, but I was too far out and I was drowning. But I remember, laying in my bed, feeling lost like I was a tame animal in the wild, wishing I could tell my dad what’s wrong but scared to. I didn’t think he’d get the pain, the hate, the sadness and the loneliness I feel. I couldn’t believe that my whole life I was scared of him, but now I’m not and I was wanting to actually tell him what’s wrong and talk to him. It stunned me.

As time grew, so did I. I realized recently, that when I let into this habit, it doesn’t actually help. Not anymore. Yes, it releases stress and makes me feel human, but it doesn’t change my life. I still cry and no amount of pain will change that. I still want my mom and no amount of strikes can alternate that. It only makes me come to realization more and I over think, trying to justify it to myself and always coming to the conclusion that I deserve it, but I don’t. I don’t need to feel this way. I don’t need to have this ache on myself adding up to the ache inside. It does nothing for me anymore.  But I thought since I was my siblings punching bag, I might as well be my own. It’s a Mary-go-round in my head that never stops. But I know that I can’t do it.

Throughout these four excruciating years of hate, I learned that no habit will bring back my happiness or connection with people. I hide my past from a very important person in my life. Its more than these past four years, but rather my whole life, what I grew up to see up until age 12 or 13. I also hide my self away, like a scared kid in the closet with an intruder in the house, I don’t dare to come out. Everything is so loud and it doesn’t stop. But I don’t only hide in my room, I hide myself even when I am around family, but being in my room is easiest. At times though, when I have to leave my humble get away, I don’t say much, or I say so little that it counts at conversation but I still haven’t said anything about me. I keep it all hidden like if I said anything, it will be used against me. I hide my past, secrets, my truth, my lie and everything. Yes, I have stopped my hateful habit, but what will stop it permanently is to let go and stop hiding so that I can move on.
The thing about addiction is how much I thought mine was okay, but I realize now that it wasn’t. My addiction, well, I don’t like its name, so I’ll say this; letting your demons in leads to a slippery slopes that leads into black and blue spots, scars and marks of that burning iron. Getting past it took a lot of time and realization. Writing about it took a lot of time and healing. Justifying it is something that I’m done doing anymore though. It’s not okay. I’m not going to let these demons in anymore. I’ve learned that my life is in my hands. Yes my depression and anxiety are here to stay for it, but I’ll learn to cope with them. I can’t tell you how to get through this forest of agony, but I can tell you that once you finally make your way out, it’s one of the most marvelous feelings to experience. To finally be free. I’m ready though to start a new chapter of my life and stop re-reading my old one.
Hi, I’m going to tell you about my future. It’s going to be wonderful, depressing, boring, exciting and will be very little like my past. This is my book I’m writing and my new chapter, I promise, to write the best I can. I hope when you’re ready to start a new chapter, that yours is amazing as well.

Yes, I’m happy. I can finally say whole again. This habit may have been bad, but at least I didn’t go off the deep end. I’m doing okay in my life. I’m finally feeling good and hopeful about my future. Now good bye. I’m going to go live it. I hope yours is good too.