Du fängst an, zu trinken und rauchen und atmest alles so tief ein, dass du hoffst, es würde sich etwas ändern. Du achtest nur noch auf deine eigenen Gefühle, fokusierst dich auf die Dinge, die dich umbringen könnten, du hörst auf, nach Dingen zu suchen, die dich am leben erhalten.
"imagine. ten years from now. when you’re happily married, and you have your own children. you have a good job, a nice house. everything you always wanted. and your five year old child comes up to you and says ‘mummy, what are these scars from?’.
what are you going to say?
‘i used to get a razor, some glass, a knife.. and pull it slowly down my arm to see the blood drop out, to feel alive. to feel real pain, and not emotional pain that tears you apart.’
no, of course you aren’t. but what are you going to say? you can’t tell the truth to a five year old little girl, or boy. what if they think because you did it, that means it’s okay for them to do it? what if they did it, and it was all your fault? what if when they feel down, instead of talking to you, they cut or even worse?
what would you do then?"
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