Burning

I was looking at a picture of me. My boyfriend at the time had his arms around my waist and two of our friends were messing about beside us. I noticed that I was wearing my white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Anytime I wore the shirt now, I had to have the shirt down. The photo was taken less than a month ago. It was hard to believe so much could change in a month. Hard to believe that only a month ago I was able to wear that shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

My scars are fading now. Most of them reduced to a barely noticeable blemish. Some still are yet to heal completely, blatantly obvious scabs on the inside of my forearm.

I started burning myself just over a week after that photo was taken. I was happy in that picture.

I might write one day about everything in my life that led up to this and that one dreadful weekend that was breaking point but for now, I'm just writing this.

I got the whole idea of burning myself from a very close friend. She had very recently confided in me about her self-harming. I haven't confided in her about my own for fear that she'd think it was 'cause of her showing me. Although that wouldn't be true. I had held a knife or scissors to my arms several times before. I had just never felt so intensely alone and misunderstood at those moments.

The killing thing is though, when she told me, I was shocked. I was really upset. I didn't know what to say. I believe I told her next time she feels like that, talk to us, her friends or maybe hit a pillow.

I just didn't understand how or why someone would harm themselves. Wouldn't they want to take their anger out on the people that made them feel like this, rather than themselves? No. It was an outlet of anger and frustration for me. It was as if I was dealing with all the emotions inside me by inflicting pain on myself. Physical pain I was able to handle.

Did I try to talk to friends or hit a pillow? Yes. I tried to talk to friends. It just reinforced my feeling of loneliness and misunderstanding further. None of them understood. Yet it wasn't their fault. How could I explain? I couldn't put how I felt into words, couldn't even begin to explain my feelings. I stopped talking to my friends about how I felt then. They just worried and felt bad when they didn't know what to say. I didn't want that.

The funny thing is. when I first started doing it, I was proud. I feel sick when I think of it now. But the very first time I burnt myself, I was proud of the several burns on my arms. I washed them gently over the sink. I remember looking in the mirror and smiling at myself because I had found a release.

I grew to want more from the burning. I pushed harder, and kept the cigarette down longer. I pushed it round and round. I did become ashamed. It scared me how easily I had become a person I refused to understand a couple of weeks ago. The burning only lasted 3 days in which I had made over 20 burns. Some big, some barely noticeable.

In an emotional conversation with my mother, I broke down and showed her my arms. I feared if I didn't, I would continue for a long time. I've regretted telling her ever since. She still doesn't understand. I've just scared her, which I didn't mean to. Now my father knows, my grandmother knows and both of my Mum's best friends know. All because "they need to know." Oh, and my doctor and some counselor I only saw once and a bit know too.

Since then, I've only confided in one of my friends. I want to tell the other friend. The one I feel close to in a different way but I don't think I will.

I'm writing this because of her actually. She writes when she's feeling sad or angry or just to write. I admire her for it so I thought I'd follow her lead. I love her with all my heart and I couldn't bear to hurt her. I need her in my life now even if she wasn't that big a role in my life a month and a half ago. She's in my life now and I couldn't have or wouldn't want it any other way.

I hope someday I'll have the courage to let her read this.