Still

There was a kid in the church I go to who cuts and posts it in her social media account. Whenever we happen to talk about her, they tell me, “you’re done to that phase (by ‘phase’ they mean the time in my life when I cut the most), right?”, And I laugh, and say yes.

They say that I don’t harm myself anymore, all because they don’t see my cuts . Just because they do not see me bleeding, they assume that I am fine.

But I’m not. I was never fine.

I tried to get cleaned for months and fail each time.

I try to enjoy myself in the company of others but at the end of the day, I always go to bed thinking why I never took the courage to kill myself. And every night, before I sleep, I am itched to cut.

No matter how much I tell myself that I should never cut again, I still go back to the same place I just left. 

They must have been thinking that because I don’t say, “I want to die” anymore, that means I don’t really want to die.

Do I still cut? Yes. 

Do I still want to die? Yes.

But I don’t want to say it. Because nobody can ever understand the numbness I feel, no matter how much I describe it.

So instead of saying “I want to die.”, I say, “I’m tired.” “I can’t do this anymore.” Because it’s easier for them to understand since they feel exhaustion too, but the difference is, mine is a different kind.