Come on, skinny love, what happened here?
Storytime!
So, it’s hard not to look at my forearms sometimes and mourn the loss of my red and raw arms. They’re clean now, even though you can still see the scars in some lights. Well, discoloration anyway.
And I get flashbacks of my first month or so at CFC. I lied to the staff, saying that the new wounds on my arms were there when I was admitted, which was partly true. Some of them were. But I did a lot of damage my first few weeks there. I was never put on Caution when I was there - where I would be isolated from all the other girls and watched for self-harm. (Well that was one of the reasons you could get on Caution, anyway.)
Sometimes I wonder if the staff was just in denial that I was still scratching my arms under the radar. Anyway, I remember catching a glimpse of my arms in the mirror one day there. And I actually felt like crying. From the looks of my arms, it looked like I had been in battle, they were the worst I’d ever seen them. And I was in battle, with myself - as cliche as that sounds.
I wondered, What the hell have I done? How did it come to this? But I couldn’t stop. Truth is (and I haven’t admitted this to anyone): I self-harmed my whole four-month stay at CFC. Not just the first two months, like I’ve confessed to everyone else thus far.
It’s an difficult addiction, like any other. (Now my stomach’s queasy because I know I’m about to post this….)
