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november 11th, 2014 - 3am

i don’t know what made me do it. i just had my guitar pick in hand and it sounded so easy. sounded good. i wasn’t in a bad mood, wasn’t sad or depressed. it just sounded good.

scary, really, the damage you can do with a plastic guitar pick.

the next night, curled up in bed with my boyfriend, i asked him why he never says anything about my cuts or scars. i knew he’d seen them, and i’d admitted earlier to slipping up. he simply said, “it just gives it more attention.”

i didn’t know how to respond. everyone else always mentions newer cuts, demands an explanation or threatens to intervene. “why did you do it, kym?” “you shouldn’t do this to yourself.” “you have to stop.” and just the fact that he made a point of not saying anything…. it hit me that he understands. even if he himself has never been through it, he understands. i suppose it’s obvious enough that i regret it, and he knows i’m well aware that he doesn’t like me slicing my own skin. he doesn’t have to say anything, because i know what he would say. and he knows that i’m trying to break the habit. i’m trying to stop.

he’s not trying to fix me. i think he knows better than anyone that you can’t fix someone; they have to heal with time. he wants to be there for me while i fix myself. and he loves me, really truly loves me. fuck ups, scars, and all. i wish i could have communicated how much that means to me.

"everyone else always freaks out," i said, "and it’s kind of nice. that you don’t, i mean."

nice. that wasn’t the word i was looking for. it isn’t “kind of nice.” it shows a level of caring and understanding that amazes me. it’s more than nice. it’s a blessing, a wonder.

it’s hope.

and i wonder if he understands that, too, from reading between the lines of my sleepy two sentences. i wonder if he understands that i meant, "thank you. you give me hope."

Description
november 11th, 2014 - 3am

i don’t know what made me do it. i just had my guitar pick in hand and it sounded so easy. sounded good. i wasn’t in a bad mood, wasn’t sad or depressed. it just sounded good.

scary, really, the damage you can do with a plastic guitar pick.

the next night, curled up in bed with my boyfriend, i asked him why he never says anything about my cuts or scars. i knew he’d seen them, and i’d admitted earlier to slipping up. he simply said, “it just gives it more attention.”

i didn’t know how to respond. everyone else always mentions newer cuts, demands an explanation or threatens to intervene. “why did you do it, kym?” “you shouldn’t do this to yourself.” “you have to stop.” and just the fact that he made a point of not saying anything…. it hit me that he understands. even if he himself has never been through it, he understands. i suppose it’s obvious enough that i regret it, and he knows i’m well aware that he doesn’t like me slicing my own skin. he doesn’t have to say anything, because i know what he would say. and he knows that i’m trying to break the habit. i’m trying to stop.

he’s not trying to fix me. i think he knows better than anyone that you can’t fix someone; they have to heal with time. he wants to be there for me while i fix myself. and he loves me, really truly loves me. fuck ups, scars, and all. i wish i could have communicated how much that means to me.

"everyone else always freaks out," i said, "and it’s kind of nice. that you don’t, i mean."

nice. that wasn’t the word i was looking for. it isn’t “kind of nice.” it shows a level of caring and understanding that amazes me. it’s more than nice. it’s a blessing, a wonder.

it’s hope.

and i wonder if he understands that, too, from reading between the lines of my sleepy two sentences. i wonder if he understands that i meant, "thank you. you give me hope."