![]() I saw a box cutter and, without thinking, grabbed it and slowly scraped it against the skin of the outside of my hand. I was in my basement, alone and feeling distraught. I was 15 when I cut myself for the first time. For me, relief came through cutting myself with razor blades and other sharp objects. As any person in my condition would, I desperately sought relief, even if it was short-lived. ![]() Over time, my efforts to conceal my inner pain took a toll and manifested into bouts of depression, each one becoming more and more severe. I thought there was something inherently wrong with me for “letting” it happen and that I somehow deserved it. I blamed myself for how others had treated me. ![]() Like many young men, I was steadfast in my attempt to mask emotional pain. After a while, I looked in the mirror and despised the person staring back. The more I heard these words, the more I believed them. Worse than any strike, however, were the words I was tormented with on almost a daily basis: I was worthless, weak and pathetic I would be better off taking my own life. ![]() I remember the constant throbbing in my arms from being hit. I recall being bullied as a young adolescent. From the time I was nine, I had been sexually, physically and verbally abused. Like an iceberg, there was plenty below my surface. I was an undergraduate student in psychology and seemingly had it all together at least that’s what others thought.
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