It has been two years since I last fell into that dark pit. It was a dangerous area. It is still one that I must tiptoe around. I climbed out of it, but there are still times, two years later, that I fear falling back.
Two years ago, I mutilated myself for what I hope to be the last time. I say hope, for I have said that before. There would be strings of days where I felt that I would never harm myself again. I was going into recovery! Then, I would stumble. Fall. Back in. I know how this dance goes. I really do.
I used to loathe myself for it. Every time I took a blade to my wrist, I felt ashamed. So, so ashamed. I would go so long, only to fall back. I hated myself so much for it. So much. I hated myself. How come I could not achieve it? Why was it so hard to get past it? I was in a loving relationship with something that I hated. I hated being so involved with harming myself, but I loved it. I was in control.
Two years ago, I harmed myself for what I hope was the last time. I gave my cherished blades to my partner, who threw them into the river. I have cried. I have dealt with the emotional outbursts I used to suppress. I have had to learn new coping methods. Two years later, I have not gone back to my harmful ways that were a part of my life since the passing of my mother when I was five.