Who I was 3 months ago.

I can’t tell you to put it down.

The well meaning expression would fly out of my mouth, potentially accompanied by a cringe, as I remind myself slowly that I can’t put it down either.

But, I can tell you what will happen if you won’t.

It won’t be pretty. You’ll drag that thin blade across smooth skin and watch with fascinated eyes as blood trickles out. Maybe you’ll sigh? Draw in a deep breath? The satisfaction of watching the sweet dribble will last for thirty-two seconds at most. If you’re lucky, forty-five. As the dots of scarlet stop flowing, you’ll find that fake sense of tranquility dissipating. Frantically, you’ll cut into yourself again, trying to bring it back. Because you felt whole. And, God, you haven’t felt whole in so long.

Then it get’s worse. You finish because your fingers begin to hurt from gripping that razor so tightly or you just feel you’ve done a sufficient job for now. You’ll drop the blade and watch as the blood drips out of your body. Maybe it’ll splatter on the floor. Maybe you’re already wiping it off.

That’s when the shame sets in. The euphoria you thought this would bring you is long gone and all you’re left with is a plethora of scars and guilt. Your face will crinkle up like you’re about to cry again, but all of the moisture is gone from your eyes. You’re empty.

Then a few hours goes by. You’ll try to forget it, but the air stings the fresh wounds and every time you move you’ll feel the impact of what you’ve done ringing through every fiber of your body. You’ll try and cover it with clothes, but there’s always that lingering thought. What if I bleed through? What will I say?

A few weeks will go by. The paranoia will rule your mind and suddenly, you’re limited to a few outfits. The other ones have become too revealing. They show the world how broken you are on the outside, as well as the inside. You’ve been eyeing that razor ever since the first moment you opened your skin and poured out the emotions your mouth was too afraid to utter. You think maybe if I can just do it a couple more times, I’ll be happy? Right? Maybe you’ll draw a few more red lines on your skin. Maybe you’ll just think about it. But I promise, the thought will be there.

The scars become prominent. They hang on you as pink, angry lines that mar your body and you begin to feel uglier and more pathetic than you did before you started. You convince yourself that you won’t do it again. That it’s bad and you should just quit while you’re ahead. You’ve seen the scars of kids at school and church like these and you knew how deep in they were. You decide you don’t ever want to be that person. The cutter.

Then the next fight will happen. Could be a day from your commitment to never go down that road again, could be three months. You could be battling with your parents, your friends, yourself.

And your mind will soar immediately to that evil little coping mechanism under the sink in your bathroom. Or in your nightstand drawer. Wherever you’ve stashed it. Because already, throwing it away has become too difficult.

You’ll run with tears in your eyes and impulses in your soul to it and let it bite into you. It could be the second or the third time. Yet, before you even realize it, you’re lying on the floor of your bathroom with your blood coloring the tile. Your body will be scarred from head to toe. There will not be an inch of your skin the addiction has not claimed. Your mind will race and the only words that your brain can process will be this isn’t a game anymore.

And you’ll be hooked.

So, I can’t tell you to put it down. Because right now, the fresh scars pressing into my khakis are stinging and my brain will not allow me to be a hypocrite to you.

But, I can tell you that once you start, it will become the hardest thing you will ever do to stop.