Written by TM Into The Unknown
Feel Free to Comment as Always.
*Disclaimer* All Dear Diary Stories are FICTIONAL and are not meant to portray any events in my life, or in the lives of people I know. Any references to things that may have happened to the people I know or have spoken to are entirely coincidence. That does not mean, however, that some of my inspiration for these stories have not come from things I’ve seen, heard, or have been told from those same friends or people that I know.
Please also note that the content in these stories may not be suitable for all ages and may also be offensive to some. For that I apologize beforehand.
Dear Diary,
Compared to him I have a great life. I have a loving family, my health, good grades, and a boyfriend. He has nothing. Who would have ever guessed that it was me, and not him, who has ended up with blood on their hands?
He walked right in on me. It was the middle of the day. I was in my kitchen. He never knocked when he opened the front door. I didn’t hear him walk through the living room and pear into the kitchen. If I had known I would have ran straight to the bathroom. If I had heard the door open or shut I would have stuck that knife into the drawer. I didn’t and he saw everything.
The sleeves on my sweatshirt were pulled up to my elbows. I had a small kitchen knife in my hand, the kind you might use to slice bananas. The blade of the knife was dull, the point however, sharp. I held the knife in my hand like you would a pencil and started cutting short lines into my left arm.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jumped and the knife fell out of my hands and onto the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and pulled my shirt sleeve down hoping he hadn’t seen anything.
“Nothing. Just putting dishes away.”
“Yeah, and I’m eating Corn Flakes. Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Fine, then let me see the knife your supposedly putting away.”
“No. Hey, don’t you ever knock?”
“I sometimes ring the doorbell when your parents are home, but no, not usually. Besides I wanted to chat, and you weren’t answering your cell.”
“Oh. Well I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“No. Let me see your arm.”
He didn’t wait for me to respond with another no. He didn’t have to look very hard when he got close to me. The blood had already soaked through the sleeve. He took my arm, lifted up the sleeve, and then just shook his head as he looked at me. I had been crying right before I had decided to start cutting myself earlier. I’m sure he saw that fact when he looked into my eyes. Still holding my hand with one arm, he took his other and grabbed the hand I had behind my back. He pulled that in front of me and took the knife.
“Now do you want to tell me what you were doing? What you were trying to accomplish? Hell, maybe just why on earth you would do this at all?”
“Let me wash my hands and the knife.”
“And maybe get a new shirt on while you’re at it?”
“Oh my God, the shirt! My mom will see the blood.”
“No she won’t. Don’t worry about it. All you need to do is wash it before she gets home from work. Now, why on earth are you cutting yourself and how long have you been doing it?”
“You promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“I promise.”
“Fine, but if anyone ever hears about this, I’m never talking to you again.”
“You have my word.”
“It started around Christmas.”
“The cutting?”
“Yeah, if you want to call it that. When I started I used a scissors, but when I got back home from college for the summer I figured a knife would be best since I can wash it.”
“Why did you start?”
“It just seemed like a good idea.”
“A good idea? Are you nuts!”
“No, it’s no big deal really, just a few cuts every now and then. It’s not hurting anything.”
“But why?”
“You mean you’ve never cut yourself or anything? With all that you’ve been through. You know, the teasing, the surgeries, and everything.”
“Nope, and why would you?”
“You’ll never understand.”
“Try me.”
“Well. I got really frustrated and nervous and felt a lot of stress around Christmas time and also all throughout this semester. My schedule was so packed with school, work, and I wasn’t doing very well in my music. I’m a damn music major and I can’t play an instrument.”
“I’ve seen you play piano, I think you’re quite good.”
“Bull. I suck.”
“Whatever, so this cutting of yourself, it helps? Seems like it would cause more harm to me.”
“Again, it’s hard to explain, and I don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”
“I already promised.”
“Thanks.”
“This isn’t healthy you know. I’m worried about you. I want you to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can. I don’t think I want to.”
“Well, you’re going to whether you like it or not. Does anyone else know?”
“No, thank God. If my parents ever found out they would think I’m nuts.”
“Think about what you’re doing and what you just said for a second? You think you aren’t nuts?”
“Hey, I don’t expect you to understand. It helps. I made it through a year of college with great grades. I have a boyfriend.”
“And you’re comparing this to my year? Sure I failed, but at least I didn’t reduce myself to the level of harming my body to succeed. Where’s the dignity in that?”
“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No you shouldn’t have. Listen, if I ever see any cut marks on your arms again, I am going to tell someone. It’s dangerous. Not to mention, every time you cut the cuts will just get deeper, the blood will start flowing out faster, and one of these days you’ll just think, hell, and end it all. I don’t plan on losing someone because they made me promise never to tell.”
“You just don’t understand do you? God, just let it go, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m out of here. Make sure to wash that shirt and remind me never to use that knife, but first, I want you to promise that you’ll never do this again.”
“Fine, I promise.”
I lied. I heard the door shut this time. He was pissed. I was pissed. It’s kind of funny though. The one thing he prided himself on was that he never harmed himself despite all he went through. Never broke into his emotions. Yet, look at what happened to him. He failed his first year of college, wasted all that money. He couldn’t go to class because of anxiety. What’s worse? Taking a knife to your arm every now and then or wasting thousands of dollars on nothing. At least I succeeded.
I don’t even feel the knife cutting through my skin anymore. Pain is an afterthought. I have all these things I do on the outside, in the real world. I can’t control my emotions, I can’t control anything anymore, but I can control that cut. I can control my physical body. I have control over myself. I won’t let myself be broken, won’t let myself fail. The knife reminds me of that. It reminds me that I need to keep working, keep going, and keep suffering until I succeed. No one will ever understand this, but being able to harm myself gives me ultimate control. When I can’t control my heart or my emotions, at least I can control the blood and the scars.
He thinks I’m the one that needs help. He’s the one that needs the help. He’s the one that doesn’t get it. He’s the one that’s screwed up.
-A.
Feel Free to Comment as Always.
*Disclaimer* All Dear Diary Stories are FICTIONAL and are not meant to portray any events in my life, or in the lives of people I know. Any references to things that may have happened to the people I know or have spoken to are entirely coincidence. That does not mean, however, that some of my inspiration for these stories have not come from things I’ve seen, heard, or have been told from those same friends or people that I know.
Please also note that the content in these stories may not be suitable for all ages and may also be offensive to some. For that I apologize beforehand.
Dear Diary,
Compared to him I have a great life. I have a loving family, my health, good grades, and a boyfriend. He has nothing. Who would have ever guessed that it was me, and not him, who has ended up with blood on their hands?
He walked right in on me. It was the middle of the day. I was in my kitchen. He never knocked when he opened the front door. I didn’t hear him walk through the living room and pear into the kitchen. If I had known I would have ran straight to the bathroom. If I had heard the door open or shut I would have stuck that knife into the drawer. I didn’t and he saw everything.
The sleeves on my sweatshirt were pulled up to my elbows. I had a small kitchen knife in my hand, the kind you might use to slice bananas. The blade of the knife was dull, the point however, sharp. I held the knife in my hand like you would a pencil and started cutting short lines into my left arm.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jumped and the knife fell out of my hands and onto the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and pulled my shirt sleeve down hoping he hadn’t seen anything.
“Nothing. Just putting dishes away.”
“Yeah, and I’m eating Corn Flakes. Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Fine, then let me see the knife your supposedly putting away.”
“No. Hey, don’t you ever knock?”
“I sometimes ring the doorbell when your parents are home, but no, not usually. Besides I wanted to chat, and you weren’t answering your cell.”
“Oh. Well I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“No. Let me see your arm.”
He didn’t wait for me to respond with another no. He didn’t have to look very hard when he got close to me. The blood had already soaked through the sleeve. He took my arm, lifted up the sleeve, and then just shook his head as he looked at me. I had been crying right before I had decided to start cutting myself earlier. I’m sure he saw that fact when he looked into my eyes. Still holding my hand with one arm, he took his other and grabbed the hand I had behind my back. He pulled that in front of me and took the knife.
“Now do you want to tell me what you were doing? What you were trying to accomplish? Hell, maybe just why on earth you would do this at all?”
“Let me wash my hands and the knife.”
“And maybe get a new shirt on while you’re at it?”
“Oh my God, the shirt! My mom will see the blood.”
“No she won’t. Don’t worry about it. All you need to do is wash it before she gets home from work. Now, why on earth are you cutting yourself and how long have you been doing it?”
“You promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“I promise.”
“Fine, but if anyone ever hears about this, I’m never talking to you again.”
“You have my word.”
“It started around Christmas.”
“The cutting?”
“Yeah, if you want to call it that. When I started I used a scissors, but when I got back home from college for the summer I figured a knife would be best since I can wash it.”
“Why did you start?”
“It just seemed like a good idea.”
“A good idea? Are you nuts!”
“No, it’s no big deal really, just a few cuts every now and then. It’s not hurting anything.”
“But why?”
“You mean you’ve never cut yourself or anything? With all that you’ve been through. You know, the teasing, the surgeries, and everything.”
“Nope, and why would you?”
“You’ll never understand.”
“Try me.”
“Well. I got really frustrated and nervous and felt a lot of stress around Christmas time and also all throughout this semester. My schedule was so packed with school, work, and I wasn’t doing very well in my music. I’m a damn music major and I can’t play an instrument.”
“I’ve seen you play piano, I think you’re quite good.”
“Bull. I suck.”
“Whatever, so this cutting of yourself, it helps? Seems like it would cause more harm to me.”
“Again, it’s hard to explain, and I don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”
“I already promised.”
“Thanks.”
“This isn’t healthy you know. I’m worried about you. I want you to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can. I don’t think I want to.”
“Well, you’re going to whether you like it or not. Does anyone else know?”
“No, thank God. If my parents ever found out they would think I’m nuts.”
“Think about what you’re doing and what you just said for a second? You think you aren’t nuts?”
“Hey, I don’t expect you to understand. It helps. I made it through a year of college with great grades. I have a boyfriend.”
“And you’re comparing this to my year? Sure I failed, but at least I didn’t reduce myself to the level of harming my body to succeed. Where’s the dignity in that?”
“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No you shouldn’t have. Listen, if I ever see any cut marks on your arms again, I am going to tell someone. It’s dangerous. Not to mention, every time you cut the cuts will just get deeper, the blood will start flowing out faster, and one of these days you’ll just think, hell, and end it all. I don’t plan on losing someone because they made me promise never to tell.”
“You just don’t understand do you? God, just let it go, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m out of here. Make sure to wash that shirt and remind me never to use that knife, but first, I want you to promise that you’ll never do this again.”
“Fine, I promise.”
I lied. I heard the door shut this time. He was pissed. I was pissed. It’s kind of funny though. The one thing he prided himself on was that he never harmed himself despite all he went through. Never broke into his emotions. Yet, look at what happened to him. He failed his first year of college, wasted all that money. He couldn’t go to class because of anxiety. What’s worse? Taking a knife to your arm every now and then or wasting thousands of dollars on nothing. At least I succeeded.
I don’t even feel the knife cutting through my skin anymore. Pain is an afterthought. I have all these things I do on the outside, in the real world. I can’t control my emotions, I can’t control anything anymore, but I can control that cut. I can control my physical body. I have control over myself. I won’t let myself be broken, won’t let myself fail. The knife reminds me of that. It reminds me that I need to keep working, keep going, and keep suffering until I succeed. No one will ever understand this, but being able to harm myself gives me ultimate control. When I can’t control my heart or my emotions, at least I can control the blood and the scars.
He thinks I’m the one that needs help. He’s the one that needs the help. He’s the one that doesn’t get it. He’s the one that’s screwed up.
-A.
)
