Letter to a Teenager

Dear fellow teenager

Stop. Just stop. Keep that blade away, and take a deep breath. Now go, wash your face, and come back here. I have got something to tell you.

No, I am not going to ask you to think about all the happy memories that you have, or about all the people who care for you. Remember the first time you told your best friend that you couldn’t take it anymore, and you were cutting? And he asked you to think about all the happy things in your life, and you tried, but you couldn’t think of anything? I know how that feels, all too well. I know you cannot think of anything happy when you have that blade in your hand, and cutting seems like the only way out.

I know you feel like dying, but trust me, you don’t want to. The scars on your wrist prove that. If you really you wanted to die, you wouldn’t just cut, would you? But believe me, someday, the cuts will be deeper than you wanted them to be. Someday, there would be more blood than you have ever seen. The wounds won’t heal, leaving just pale marks on your skin. You will be taken to a hospital. Your parents will cry. Even though you think they do not love you, they will cry.

Of course, you didn’t want to hurt them. Of course, you didn’t plan to die. You just wanted to cut, and the cuts were too deep. It’s your fault, and it’s not. No one will blame you when you come from the hospital, your wrist bandaged, but they will all secretly wonder how you could be so selfish. They won’t believe that you didn’t want to die. They won’t believe how scared you were when you woke up in that hospital room. They won’t believe that you just wanted to cut, because the physical pain takes your mind off the mental agony.

So, from next time, when you feel like cutting, keep that blade away. Throw it in the dustbin, flush it down the toilet. Take a pen and a paper, and write. Write how you feel. Take a paintbrush and a canvas, and paint monsters, monsters that seem to be feasting on your insides, such is the pain. Take the old love letters, shred them into pieces, or burn them. Go to your best friend’s place, and tell him how you feel. Go hug your mom. Just let it out. Just let your anger and fear out without touching that blade. And when it’s done, go wash your face, and stand in the balcony. Let the cold wind brush against your wet face. And smile, because you’re alive.

Your friend,
Somebody who used to self harm.

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