Hope without Bandages

(Trigger Warning)

I was recently diagnosed with Bipolar affective disorder.

This was written when I relapsed some time ago. I thought I’d share.

I’m proud to say I’m officially done with this part of my life. I will never need to break disposable razors for the blades. I don’t miss having to hide my body and I don’t miss the scars and I don’t miss the way it calmed me.  I really want everyone to know that cutting is something that will become an addiction once you start. At least that was my experience and I don’t wish it upon anyone.  I remember sitting on the bathroom floor the day I cut myself too deep and it really had me questioning what the fuck I was doing. Why harm yourself when everyone else tries to harm you too? This world is full of people who want to hurt you and why hurt yourself even more? I don’t miss cutting myself. I remember when I did though. Self – harm is still an issue and it starts at a young age. People don’t stop cutting until they scare themselves by cutting too deep. Well, I can’t say that for a fact but that’s the way it happened for me.

“Each cut, each scar, each burn, a different mood or time. I told him what the first one was, told him where the second one came from. I remembered them all. And for the first time in my life I felt beautiful. Finally part of the earth. I touched the soil and he loved me back.” – Secretary


Self- hatred is so comfortable to me and it has never gone away.

I’ve found hope in bood and razor blades

I’ve found beauty in cuts and bandages

Bleeding has been the easiest part of life

Bruises on my heart can show for it

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The Acceptance Project (Part 1)

Trigger warning: Self-harm talk.

I was a cutter since middle school. This project is helping me get through my recent mental health issues. I’m Bipolar  and these past few weeks were pretty good so i’m getting better.

I will always miss cutting myself. That’s just how it’s going to be. I  don’t miss hiding my body, spewing lies about it just being a “Cat scratch” and hurrying to clean up before someone needs the bathroom.

I relapsed once but I’m getting through all of this day by day.

I sure hope you enjoy my photos. Mental illness is real and the fucking stigma around it needs to die. I’m tired of people being so judgemental.  Stop being fuck wads! Anyway, here’s some of the photos.


 Raw. My makeup is what keeps me happy and comfortable. I’m without makeup in these photos.

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Have you ever felt imaginary hands around your neck? The empty stomach that somehow is filled with pure adrenaline or anxiety. I will always hate that feeling.

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Stay away, there’s not anything you can do. You can’t love or wish a mental illness away.

12/31/16 – Room 33

I never make personal posts because I don’t feel like they matter or that what I have to say matters. I need to write though. I need to indulge in positive things or everything will completely go to shit.

I was committed for almost a week so everything is completely surreal to me. I thought I’d never go home. I’m lucky that I got to go home and I miss J so very much but I don’t think we’ll ever talk again.

Her smile was so beautiful it made my heart melt. Somehow I was able to talk to her like she was a long-lost best friend. We both have the same issues.

She probably forgot about me already but I miss her so much.

I saw her crying looking at a picture of her children. I asked her if she was okay and used corny pick-up lines to cheer her up.

Then we were friends just like that.

She said, “You look so sad when you laugh” or something like that, and that really hit me hard because it’s true. She was able to see through my facade.

She heated blankets in the dryer and gave one to me. We snuggled close by each other in the chairs in the Commons area. We watched TV, late night food bingeing and there was so much laughter I almost forgot that we were in a psych hospital.

I was discharged and they wouldn’t let me tell her goodbye. I was going to give her a stupid adult coloring book page, with my favorite song on the back. Of course the fucking cunts wouldn’t let me say goodbye.

Room 27 was mine and her room was Room 33. I saw her room and she barricaded herself in. She was worried that her ex-husband was after her and I thought that was a reasonable thing to do. We’ve both went through a lot of abuse and stalking.

I miss you, J. I wish you well and I love you.