Everyone does say that laughter is the best medicine. Your medications are just a supplement.
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When I was younger, I used to cut, from about the ages of 12-18 or so. I started with scratching my skin with needles and sticking them into myself for prolonged periods of time and graduated to cutting with razor blades. I never cut too deep or extensively; my scars are mainly concentrated on my left wrist (I’m right handed), but I would occasionally cut my stomach or thighs if I was looking for something more painful. It was a release, a letting go of the internal pain as well as an external expression of it. I wanted to look on the outside like I felt on the inside: torn and bleeding. It stopped fairly abruptly when I removed the major stressor in my life: my mother. I lived at home with my mom who was physically and emotionally abusive and often after initiating physical fights with me where I would be forced to defend myself, would parade her bruises around to her friends and tell horrible stories about her “black-hearted daughter”. She always bruised so easily; to this day it still takes massive amounts of damage to even provoke the smallest bruise on me. She could hit me all she wanted and it would never show. I got into a relationship when I was 17 and she tried for the millionth time to manipulate me by threatening to kick me out, and since I knew I had an invitation to move in with my partner at the time, I left and never looked back. I cut only once after I left home, it was still a coping mechanism for me when I had nothing else. I didn’t know how to deal with anything, I had absolutely no coping mechanisms that were healthy. I couldn’t, when I was living with my mother, it was impossible. She would make fun of me, or make sure one way or another that they were ineffective if they were found out. I’m nearing 30 now and I haven’t cut since. I have been tempted, I’ve thought of it, but I haven’t. I’ve done a lot of healing since I’ve left home and although I am still healing and still dealing with a lot, cutting feels like a part of my past that needs to stay in my past. I hate my scars, I’m trying to find a way to get rid of them, because they’re not who I am anymore. I survived my mom and although I’ll always have a very complicated relationship with her, especially now that she’s passed away, I don’t want to wear those scars as badges anymore because I am far more than just…damaged. I’m a fighter and eventually this will all be somewhere behind me.