Stories About Self Harm 소설 & 이야기

To feel the pieces scatter just to remind myself that I could still destroy things if I wanted to. But I didn't. I walked in silence, letting the echo of my shoes fill the empty corridor. I headed straight to the restroom. Locked the door. Washed my hands, even though they weren't dirty. I just needed something to do with them. Something to ground me. That push-:I regretted it the moment my palms met his chest. But not because I hurt him. Because I gave him a reaction. And people like Jade fed off reactions. Off vulnerability. Off people like me.

It was no wonder Nicole chose to wear long-sleeved outfits at work—she'd wanted to hide those scars. People who'd been harming themselves for long periods of time tended to do so because of family problems. With that thought in mind, Yvonne decided to speak in a casual tone. "Tell me more about your family."

he cut me off, "I know about the self-harm." I froze. "I know you've been cutting yourself. Burning yourself. Hurting your own body whenever your mind convinces you you've failed." My throat tightened. "And I'm not talking about Dyslexia and Disgraphia I know your doctors diagnosed you with Major Depressive Disorder. I know they prescribed antidepressants, and I know you rarely take them because once you feel a little better, you convince yourself you don't need them anymore." I couldn't look at him, shame filled me.

"So deal, okay?" "What about?" "If you kill yourself, I'll kill myself too." "Alright. But if you kill yourself, then I'll kill myself." "Okay." Audrey Simmons is suicidal. Cayden Nowell is too. But when they were about to kill themselves, they met each other on the same rooftop. And so, they made a pact. A suicide pact. This is a story about a boy and a girl who tries too hard to fit into their group of friends but constantly failed.

Melissa’s discarded pregnancy test was swept into the trash can. I agreed without hesitation. If Benedict wanted to play dead, I should play the part of a wife who died out of love, too. With my ten previous suicide attempts on record, the motive was solid. No one would suspect a thing. I smiled faintly. I opened the encrypted file and registered myself with a new identity. ... That evening, as a nurse was changing my bandages, Benedict walked in. He looked at the gauze wrapped around me, and a flicker of discomfort crossed his face.

That was what was hitting him the hardest. “It’s not your fault. Stop blaming yourself.” Anderson patted his shoulder, trying to calm down his friend. He could see the torment his friend was going through. If it went on, then he would end up breaking down. If that happened then wouldn’t it be worse that plunging a blade into his heart?

Rita delved deep into the recesses of her being, peeling back the layers of pain and vulnerability that she had long kept hidden. She embraced her wounds with compassion, acknowledging their presence and honoring the lessons they held. Through therapy, introspection, and acts of self-care, she began to heal the wounds that had kept her trapped in loneliness and despair. As Rita illuminated the dark paths within, she discovered newfound wisdom and strength. She learned to confront her fears head-on, transforming them into opportunities for growth and liberation.

I wondered over and over if Deangelo was even thinking about me at all, even if it was just for ten measly seconds. I could not take the pain of being unnoticed and unimportant anymore. It was like a constant ache in my chest. And now, I had even started to harm myself. It seemed to be the only way I could cope with the pain. The only way I could feel anything at all. I cut myself with razors, watching the blood trickle down my arms. I burned myself with cigarettes, feeling the sting of the flames against my skin. It was a sick and twisted way to deal with my emotions, but it had always been the only thing that helps.

Jude plops himself on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of her wrist was burned into my mind. Those jagged, pale lines, a roadmap of pain etched into her skin. Self-harm. I knew what they were. I'd seen it before. Back in last summer, my friend, Mikey. A quiet, artsy kid who always seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He hid it well, at first. But then I saw the cuts on his arms, hidden beneath long sleeves. I tried to help. I really did. But I was clueless, and frankly, scared. I didn't know what to say, what to do. I just… I thought maybe he will handle it.

The woman next to me gave me a knowing smile, like she could smell the arousal on me. He told anonymized stories: the newly divorced mom who cried the first time she orgasmed alone after twenty years; the twenty-five-year-old who’d only ever come from a vibrator on high and thought that was the only way; the wife whose husband called her “starfish” until she learned to ask for what she actually needed. Each story chipped away at the shame I’d been carrying like a backpack full of bricks. “You are not broken,” he said, looking straight at me for a long second. “You’ve just been told a lie so many times you started to believe it.”