on recovery

August 31, 2012
By , Stafford, VA
three days I spent lying in bed,
drowning in depression,
unable to see past my own hands
and the razor that lay in them.
though the pain was what caused the sadness,
it alleviated it as well.
the pain was the passion,
and it was all that I could see.
but in the deepest, darkest part of my human mind,
I felt a spark
that lit up something inside of me.
I looked down at my forever damaged skin
and realized that I’m destroying myself
from the inside out
and everyone I love, dragging them down with me.
I knew that there were options:
1) continue, probably severely injure myself, possibly to a fatal extent.
2) try to stop, loosely, and inevitably fall again
3) stop half-heartedly trying. stop moping. open my eyes and do something new:
fight like hell and never stop fighting.
blue eyes opened for what seemed like the first time
seeing the world
in marvelous colors
and for what it truly is.
and I found an old box,
labeled it “emergency” because
in the end, the choice is mine,
and hid my razors away in it, writing a note to myself
to tell a more desperate way to keep fighting.
they say that girls can’t fight
but my grandmother fought breast cancer
and my other one, leukemia.
I’ve seen women fight
and I’ve seen women win and lose.
but I intend to fight like all hell
fight like a girl
and never give up,
not until I’m free beyond doubt
and my world is a better place
and I am a stronger, self-reliant young woman
ready to face the world
and anything and everything
that it could possibly throw at me
and I am ready to start a new chapter of my life
that isn’t written by a razor.





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