I didn’t know quite how to describe the sensation I felt as that pin scraped across my tightly pulled skin. All I knew is that it was what I’d been longing for. It was what I wanted. That sort of intoxicating rush, the sting, the pain, the adrenaline.. It was sublime. I’ve never felt such a beautiful drilling in my brain. I loved it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as classes dragged by. I couldn’t wait to get a bathroom break to do it again.. I was addicted. When I was harming I felt such an incredible rush, but when I wasn’t, oh man.. My skin was crawling and burning, my cuts itched so intensely. Seething thoughts raced through my mind. I felt like I’d break or slip where someone would see. I was afraid, anxious, jittery, my palms and armpits were sweating, I couldn’t think straight, I was very chaste and brief in conversation. I needed out. I needed that rush again.. I slipped. I tried like hell to stop. I couldn’t. School was hell.. I couldn’t focus on my work. I couldn’t interact without fear of someone seeing the marks.. I was trapped by my addiction. Soon, when the little pinstripes weren’t enough, I turned to a blade… that was a bit too much like an advertisement for a way out. So I took the pins back, but, before they even touched my flesh, I lit em up with a lighter. That way I could say I was burned cooking or something. For a while, I was subdued. The anxiety slowed down once I found a safer means to harming myself. I, in a strange way, wanted to get caught. I wanted my mom to find out and take me to a doctor. I wanted help. I was sick. I needed some kind of medication to make my addiction become that pitiful animal behind bars at a zoo, tranquillized, drugged off its ass while people in tacky clothing and bratty kids pointed, took pictures, and laughed. But, with all zoo animal, it would eventually break free and go on a killing spree….

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