Life as a cutter.

I want to die. Yo quiero morir. What is so good about living? You get broken, and scratched, and hurt. Dead, nothing can happen to you. You can't hurt your best friends. You don't have to be perfect for your parents. You don't need to wear the best clothes, makeup, shave, because you don't need to impress anyone.
But. I can't die. No puedo morir. See that's the thing. I feel as if I am immortal. Living forever is boring, but I still can't die. Of course I'm not immortal though. I could kill myself. End my fragile human life. With one deep slice of the blade.
My first thoughts were of death. Now they are of hurt. If I can't die, I can hurt myself. Punish myself. Let myself know, that I'm not perfect. Not good for anybody. I don't deserve this body. The cuts were tiny at first. scratches. They got deeper. They scarred. They took months to heal, they made me wait months to cut again. But, I couldn't wait months. I moved, from my hip, to my leg. From my leg, to my arm. shoulder. neck. hands.
I turned invisible. Lived a life of shame. I didn't like myself, shameful to be me. Shameful for lying to the people I once loved. I was a cutter, even lower on the social classes I made in my mind. I was addicted to the blood and pain.
If I couldn't die, I could at least pretend I did. No one paid attention to me anymore. I didn't talk. I did my work. Didn't cause trouble. Didn't do anything. I was invisible to them. The normal people. Them.
Pretend. Fake. Act. Lies. All part of my daily life now. I couldn't go one sentence without lying. I lied to my best friends, my parents, my family. "I forget where I got that scar from, but that one over there was from my cat, and the one next to it was from shaving. and the ones criss crossed on top of them, they're from sailing." I wish I had enough courage to finally tell them that I lied. That all the other cuts and scars, all over my body, were from self harm.
I wore layers and layers of clothes, even in the summer. If someone touched me, they would feel the scars burning through the thin cloth. Their hands felt like poison on my skin, opening up fresh cuts, and disturbing the burned skin. I started to try and stop. I was afraid that the next time I cut, it would be the last. That the next time I cut, I would get out of control. I didn't know how bad the next cut would be.
The night I cut too deep, I was scared. I almost called 911. But what would happen to my secret? My carefully hidden secret? The blood wouldn't stop pouring onto the bathroom rug. I was shaking, scared. I didn't have the materials to stop my bleeding arm. I swore to never let it happen again. But of course, I broke any promises I made.
The next shopping trip was solely about supplies. Butterfly strips, different dressings, antibiotic cream, medical tape, scar reducers. No one noticed me, while I on the other had looked for all the people with the same supplies, hoping I was not alone, when I was. Every where I went I had to look for the people with scars on their arms, for people who only wore long sleeved shirts and boots. But there were none. I was broke, the bracelets and long sleeved shirts in my new wardrobe kept getting stained with scarlet paint pulsing out of my body.
The blood was every where. The carpets were stained, along with my clothes. Every day there was a new stain to hide, or new spots of blood to be cleaned up. I couldn't go a day with out cutting, or breaking open a scab. I would use anything. A paperclip, sewing needle, a car key.
Vacations were no more. I couldn't go to the beach without looking out of place, the swimming pool was a stinging pit of poison for the new cuts. So I itched, nothing could sooth the skin and scabs.
I was worried, but the dreams I had were worse. Dreams where I was lying on the floor, bloody, limbs torn off from the deep cutting. No way to get help. I loved the dreams though, I hated feeling alone, but the pain was too good to let go.