Some of the deeper wounds became scars, and I wore them with pride as if they were medals of valor. However, most of the time I barely cut the skin, usually just breaking the outer layer and bringing out only specks of blood. I took to wearing long sleeves to hide the markings on my arms, and I never wore shorts or bathing suits. Although a few of my friends were aware of my bulimia, no one knew about my cutting.
During particularly stressful times, I might spend two or three hours caught up in a session. At those times, I felt both peaceful and alive in a way that is hard to describe. It was as if no one and nothing else existed other than the shiny metal blade and my soft, pale flesh. If I could be that focused on my schoolwork, I would have been a straight-A student; but, of course, only while I cut did I maintain such a high level of concentration.
The next couple of years are a blur to me, now. I continued binging and vomiting, perhaps with even greater frequency; I also kept cutting, although with increasing severity, and sometimes would burn myself with candles. I'm not sure why, but Jeremy stopped abusing me. He had an apartment at school and pretty much quit coming home over vacations. He also had a few girlfriends, so I guess he was content with just doing it to them. I didn't exactly miss his stinking breath and coarse hands, but I did feel more and more invisible and alone. Megan seemed to fit into Dad's second family pretty easily, but I never belonged, and by the end of my senior year in high school, I doubted that I would live to see the age of 20.
I thought I could make a fresh start of my life by going away to college halfway across the country. I threw away my secret collection of knives and razor blades, and I entered the freshman dorm with great hope. However, before long, I had my head in the toilet and a new knife—one of those long camping knives that comes with a holster. I hadn't been cutting for more than a week or two when my roommate unexpectedly walked in on me while I thought she was in class. She opened the door, saw me pulling the edge across my forearm and screamed. I quickly put the knife under my pillow and pulled down my sleeve, but the cat was out of the bag.
That may have been the best thing that ever happened to me. My roommate contacted the residence assistant on our floor and they had a kind of intervention with me. I agreed to see the campus psychologist, and I’ve been in therapy ever since. I passed my 21st birthday with over a year and a half of sobriety. I've only binged a few times, but haven't for more than 3 months. I completely stopped cutting, and I know that I will never get that desperate again. I have learned new ways of coping with stress, and I'm starting to feel pretty good about myself at times. That's my story, and I hope it helps whoever reads it.
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