April 14, 2014 / 2:27AM 18 notes

The first picture was taken about a month after the cuts were made. The second picture was taken tonight, about six months after. 
Having suffered from mental illness since I was 15, I’m very familiar with the relapse-recover-relapse-recover cycle that’s very easy to get stuck in. I’ve been cutting myself since I was 16 years old. The longest I went between relapses was no longer than a month. Until now. 
Tonight marks 200 days since I last brought that evil blade to my skin.
Cutting was something that I learned to depend. It was a crutch that stopped me from dealing with my problems. With every scar that I left on myself, a little bit of myself died as well. It was an addiction; a horrible addiction that stole my sleep, my appetite. my grades, my family, my friends, my sanity, and my love for myself. NEVER underestimate how much hate it takes to take a blade to your own skin; the beautiful skin that holds you together, keeps you from getting sick, keeps you alive. Tearing it apart is synonymous to tearing yourself apart, and nothing will get better if you’re still doing it.
I’ve come a long way since I last relapsed. I take medication three times a day, every day. I was in weekly therapy for months before I went to once a month and then stopped it altogether. I’ve had to relearn how to live my life without the a constant cloud hanging over my head. I had to learn to embrace my beautiful skin, my beautiful body, my beautiful face, my beautiful heart, my beautiful soul. I had to learn how to choose happiness every single day. I had to learn that I had the freedom to decide how my life would go. I had to learn to be happy.
I’m so happy to wake up every day. I’m so happy to be living this life, in this body. Recovery is possible. Hope is so real. 
I’m so happy to have clean skin for the first time in four years. I’m never going back.

The first picture was taken about a month after the cuts were made. The second picture was taken tonight, about six months after. 

Having suffered from mental illness since I was 15, I’m very familiar with the relapse-recover-relapse-recover cycle that’s very easy to get stuck in. I’ve been cutting myself since I was 16 years old. The longest I went between relapses was no longer than a month. Until now. 

Tonight marks 200 days since I last brought that evil blade to my skin.

Cutting was something that I learned to depend. It was a crutch that stopped me from dealing with my problems. With every scar that I left on myself, a little bit of myself died as well. It was an addiction; a horrible addiction that stole my sleep, my appetite. my grades, my family, my friends, my sanity, and my love for myself. NEVER underestimate how much hate it takes to take a blade to your own skin; the beautiful skin that holds you together, keeps you from getting sick, keeps you alive. Tearing it apart is synonymous to tearing yourself apart, and nothing will get better if you’re still doing it.

I’ve come a long way since I last relapsed. I take medication three times a day, every day. I was in weekly therapy for months before I went to once a month and then stopped it altogether. I’ve had to relearn how to live my life without the a constant cloud hanging over my head. I had to learn to embrace my beautiful skin, my beautiful body, my beautiful face, my beautiful heart, my beautiful soul. I had to learn how to choose happiness every single day. I had to learn that I had the freedom to decide how my life would go. I had to learn to be happy.

I’m so happy to wake up every day. I’m so happy to be living this life, in this body. Recovery is possible. Hope is so real. 

I’m so happy to have clean skin for the first time in four years. I’m never going back.

self harmrecoverybipolar disorderbipolarbipolar 1bipolar 2trigger warningdepressionanxietygeneralized anxiety disordermental illnessmental disordermental disorderssuicide

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April 14, 2014 / 2:11AM 5 notes

Anonymous asked My secret? I walk by the train tracks everyday on my way to work and stand up on the bridge above them and look down and I just hope beyond hope that a little burst of wind or something will push me over and then when it doesn't I come home and mentally abuse myself to the point where I have to cut to stop me from destroying myself from the inside...I want to give up but I know if I finally killed myself my girlfriend would right after me...I don't know what to do and I can't keep going..help

my secret? i stopped looking when i crossed the street when i was 15. i only just started caring enough to look six months ago. we all go through bad times, some worse than others, but there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. what you’re going through won’t last forever, but you have to go out there and get it. i didn’t get on the road to recovery by not doing anything to better myself. i had to get professional help, consciously take my medication every day, go to therapy, learn what to do instead of cutting myself, let people in, talk when i was sad, and most importantly, start loving myself. do i still have bad days? yes. will i struggle for the rest of my life? yes. but the important thing is that i’m trying and i don’t want to die anymore.

stand up and fight for yourself. remember that you have the freedom to choose the direction your life leads. if you’re not happy in your relationship and it’s not healthy, then you don’t have to be in it. if you’re not happy with your life, change it. i know you can do this. i believe in you.

take care. <3

self harmdepressiontrigger warningsuicide

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March 27, 2014 / 2:40AM 4 notes

i’m watching Sex Sent Me to The ER and this woman had a three and a half hour long orgasm and then after that she started having prolonged, spontaneous orgasms and they couldn’t figure out why but, turns out, the anti depressants she was on was making it a lot worse because she was BIPOLAR. DING DING DING. 

i will say for the rest of my life that misdiagnosis of bipolar disorder as depression and prescribing a bipolar person anti depressants ARE HUGE FUCKING PROBLEMS. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER DOCTORS. 

sex sent me to the erbipolarbipolar disorderbipolar 1bipolar 2depressionanti depressants

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March 14, 2014 / 3:06AM 3 notes

I&#8217;ve reached 170 days of being free from self harm. Tonight, I&#8217;m celebrating by showing love to just a few of my scars. Thank you for teaching me how not to cope. Thank you for gently reminding me why I&#8217;m working so hard. Thank you for giving me a reason every day to keep going, even if I want to give up. Thank you for reminding me that taking that blade to my skin was a choice, and I have the power to stop. Thank you for sharing my story with others and letting those struggling silently know that they&#8217;re not alone. Thank you for being beautiful in a way and reminding me that even with scar tissue on my arms, legs, and in my heart, I&#8217;m a beautiful and worthwhile human being. But most of all, thank you for fading and showing me every day how fucking strong I am. Here&#8217;s to 170 more days.

I’ve reached 170 days of being free from self harm. Tonight, I’m celebrating by showing love to just a few of my scars. Thank you for teaching me how not to cope. Thank you for gently reminding me why I’m working so hard. Thank you for giving me a reason every day to keep going, even if I want to give up. Thank you for reminding me that taking that blade to my skin was a choice, and I have the power to stop. Thank you for sharing my story with others and letting those struggling silently know that they’re not alone. Thank you for being beautiful in a way and reminding me that even with scar tissue on my arms, legs, and in my heart, I’m a beautiful and worthwhile human being. But most of all, thank you for fading and showing me every day how fucking strong I am. Here’s to 170 more days.

self harmtrigger warningrecoverybipolarbipolar 1bipolar 2depressionanxietyscarsthank you

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January 24, 2014 / 6:30PM 80 notes

exactly four months ago today, i was a wreck. i was at the end of my rope. i was the worst i had ever been. the week before, i had slit my wrists multiple times, cut up my thighs, and was taken to the hospital before being brought back home.

i shouldn’t have been brought back home.

bipolar disorder was something i’d come to associate with myself only a few months before. but depression was something that had become a part of who i was. depression had been with me for four years, but this was the worst i’d ever felt it. life wasn’t just gray, it was black. i was on several medications that weren’t doing anything for me at all. i was in weekly therapy but every session flew out of my mind the second i left. 

i felt i had nothing to live for. 

when i got home from work that night, i got one of my blades and took a bath. i cut my thighs so much that the water was tinted with red by the time i was done. i went over old cuts, newer cuts, scars; i didn’t care. i got out of the bath, went into the kitchen, grabbed my bottle of sleeping pills and a drink and went into my room. a few minutes later, i’d swallowed ten pills. i was stopped by my parents. i’d never been so disappointed in my life.

after that, i spent six days in the hospital recovering from my suicide attempt. i’d spent time in the hospital earlier that year, in March, but it was different this time. it didn’t give me as much hope as it had before. i slept through most of the first two days. they stripped me off all my meds and put me on completely new ones. i felt so lonely and helpless and hopeless. all i did was cry and scratch at my cuts and sleep way too much. when i got out, i still felt as if i was in a haze.

for a month after i got out of the hospital, i felt worse than i had before i’d gone in. life sucked. all i could think about was how much i wished my attempt had worked and i had died that night. i couldn’t do my schoolwork, i could barely do my job, i couldn’t socialize; i couldn’t do anything but sleep and eat and yearn for just one cut, just one fucking cut. 

but i held out. i stayed strong. i threw out my razors. i took my pills responsibly. and i got better.

i spend a lot of my time talking with people who have been in the same position that i have. i’ve heard a lot of the same phrases that i used to use:

there’s no hope.

i’m never going to get better.

i’d be better off dead.

my life isn’t worth living. 

i’m never going to be happy.

i’m hopeless.

i’m worthless.

i’m done. 

if you only remember one thing i say in this post, please please please have it be this.

you are worth it. life is worth it. there is help out there for you. you are going to get better. you are going to be so happy and so loved. just because it’s bad right now doesn’t mean it will always be bad. i don’t care how low you are, how far you’ve fallen, what kind of hell you’re going through; it WILL get better. you’re going to smile and laugh again. your cuts are going to scar. someone is going to love you. you will love yourself and your life. 

i’m living proof.

HOPE. IS. REAL.

stay safe, stay lovely, and if you ever need somebody, i’m here.

<3

bipolarbipolar disorderdepressionself harmtrigger warningcuttingsuiciderecoveryit gets betterbipolar 1bipolar 2hospitalcleanfour months cleanwow

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January 4, 2014 / 11:27PM 27 notes

I’m not ashamed to say I used to cut myself.

Why?

Because I USED TO cut myself.

self harmtrigger warningcuttingbipolar disorderbipolarbipolar 2depressionsuicide

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November 30, 2013 / 3:13PM 69 notes

When I was 15, I learned that you don&#8217;t always need a reason to be sad. That sometimes you&#8217;re in pain and you cry and you don&#8217;t understand why. Nothing makes it go away and you don&#8217;t know how to explain it so you just suffer in silence.
When I was 16, I learned that if you unscrew a nail from your ceiling and scratch it back and forth across your skin until you bleed, the pain will go away for a little while. If you&#8217;re crying and you feel like you&#8217;re on the edge of hysterics and you can&#8217;t sleep, just take your nail, make yourself bleed, and you&#8217;ll fall asleep in minutes.
Depression. The sadness had a name. Zoloft, once a day, and you&#8217;ll be ok.
When I was 17, I learned that straight edge razors come in packs of 10, and you can get them for $1 at Walmart. Use the side and it will bleed, but use the edge and the cut will open wide and blood will pour. 
Depression. Zoloft. Welbutrin. Lexapro. Once a day. Six weeks later, no change. Try this one. Once a day. Six weeks later, no change. Ok, how about this one? You&#8217;ll be ok. I&#8217;m not ok at all.
When I was 18, I learned that it hurts to walk when you have 100, 200, 300 cuts all over your thighs. When you run out of room, just cut over old ones. Stay away from your arms. You might hit a vein. Someone might find out. It&#8217;s a secret. No one can know.
Therapy. Medication. There&#8217;s hope. There&#8217;s a light at the end of the tunnel. Where is it? All I see is darkness.
When I was 19, I learned that the tender skin of your arms hurt so much more when they&#8217;re split open, and blood pours so much faster, for so much longer. Overdoses hurt, hospitals are scary, and everything you thought you knew can be changed with one word. 
Bipolar.
Lamictal. Cymbalta. Seroquel. Risperdal. Lithium. 
When I was 19, I learned that with the right combination of medication (5 to be exact, 9 pills throughout the day) and weekly therapy, the light you thought no longer existed will make its way back into your life. The harsh, painful cuts on your arms and thighs will scar. Suicide will no longer be an option. A boy will love you. Your life will regain purpose. And every day when you wake up, the mantra you never believed will be playing in your head.
Hope is real.
Hope is real.
Hope is real.
Today, November 30, is self harm awareness day. I&#8217;ll be wearing this ribbon on my wrist all day to show support for people like me, who have suffered or are still suffering from self harm. Things CAN and WILL get better. I&#8217;m living proof that with a little bit of strength, perseverance, and support from the most amazing family, friends, and boyfriend in the world, recovery CAN and WILL happen. 
Hope is real.
Hope is real.
Hope is real.
&lt;3

When I was 15, I learned that you don’t always need a reason to be sad. That sometimes you’re in pain and you cry and you don’t understand why. Nothing makes it go away and you don’t know how to explain it so you just suffer in silence.

When I was 16, I learned that if you unscrew a nail from your ceiling and scratch it back and forth across your skin until you bleed, the pain will go away for a little while. If you’re crying and you feel like you’re on the edge of hysterics and you can’t sleep, just take your nail, make yourself bleed, and you’ll fall asleep in minutes.

Depression. The sadness had a name. Zoloft, once a day, and you’ll be ok.

When I was 17, I learned that straight edge razors come in packs of 10, and you can get them for $1 at Walmart. Use the side and it will bleed, but use the edge and the cut will open wide and blood will pour. 

Depression. Zoloft. Welbutrin. Lexapro. Once a day. Six weeks later, no change. Try this one. Once a day. Six weeks later, no change. Ok, how about this one? You’ll be ok. I’m not ok at all.

When I was 18, I learned that it hurts to walk when you have 100, 200, 300 cuts all over your thighs. When you run out of room, just cut over old ones. Stay away from your arms. You might hit a vein. Someone might find out. It’s a secret. No one can know.

Therapy. Medication. There’s hope. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Where is it? All I see is darkness.

When I was 19, I learned that the tender skin of your arms hurt so much more when they’re split open, and blood pours so much faster, for so much longer. Overdoses hurt, hospitals are scary, and everything you thought you knew can be changed with one word. 

Bipolar.

Lamictal. Cymbalta. Seroquel. Risperdal. Lithium. 

When I was 19, I learned that with the right combination of medication (5 to be exact, 9 pills throughout the day) and weekly therapy, the light you thought no longer existed will make its way back into your life. The harsh, painful cuts on your arms and thighs will scar. Suicide will no longer be an option. A boy will love you. Your life will regain purpose. And every day when you wake up, the mantra you never believed will be playing in your head.

Hope is real.

Hope is real.

Hope is real.

Today, November 30, is self harm awareness day. I’ll be wearing this ribbon on my wrist all day to show support for people like me, who have suffered or are still suffering from self harm. Things CAN and WILL get better. I’m living proof that with a little bit of strength, perseverance, and support from the most amazing family, friends, and boyfriend in the world, recovery CAN and WILL happen. 

Hope is real.

Hope is real.

Hope is real.

<3

trigger warningself harmself harm awareness daynovember 30bipolardepressionmental illnessmental disordermental disorderscuttinghopestay strongfightertherapymedicationhope is realboyfriendfamilyfriendshappyhappinesscan't believe i can finally tag something with happiness

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October 17, 2013 / 8:33PM

I’m really sad tonight. I just want to cry and scream and cut and die. And I feel like I have no one to talk to. No one. So I’m just going to get into my pajamas, go get some ice cream, watch the X Factor and try not to bawl my eyes out. Crying is just no fun when you have no one there to comfort you.

self harmtrigger warningdepression

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