While sitting in the car today, I was staring at my hands and noticed a few things, reminders of the past.  They usually aren't so clear and outright, but today, they looked as if they'd never faded away.

I used to cut.  Unlike the little emo fuckers that do it for fun and to gain attention, I did it because of mental illness.  I did it for years.  And I hid it.  Not even my family or closest friends knew about it until I finally told them when I realized it was time for me to seek help.  I wore sweatshirts most of the time, and gloves (fingerless or otherwise) the rest of the time. 

Most of my scars fade rather quickly.  There are very few that remain visible on my body.  But there are some days where the amount of blood in my hands is just right and those scars start showing through, some more visible than others.  They show the designs that I had carved into myself.  I'm not proud of how they got there.  It's not a part of my past that I like, but it is a part of me.

So many people mistake real cutters as people who want to kill themselves.  I never wanted to die.  Cutting calmed me.  It was control to me.  I knew exactly what was going to happen, and I could control it.  The pain helped me remember that I was alive.  Sometimes the pain of the cut itself was not enough, and I'd wash it with nail polish remover to feel the sting.  It caused a release of endorphins that helped me feel better.  But mostly, it just calmed me.  I'd watch the blood well up in the knife's trail, and I'd watch the droplets drip down my hand. 

I look back at it now, and it disturbs me that I did that, yet there are times when I feel the urge to start it again.  It was a destructive behavior and had something of an addictive nature which made it that much worse.  I stopped doing it, but it will always be something that remains in me.  I don't think the desire will ever really go away. 

But the scars are my reminders of what I did, and what I wish never to do again.  It's my reminder to ask for help instead of trying to take everything on by myself.  It's my reminder that there's something worse than not asking for help.