Dear yearning summer,

strange history

I'm not diagnosed with anything but I had a traumatic moment in my life where I was caught bleeding though my shirt and sent to a therapist before "word got out." My parents didn't understand nor did they try to understand what led me to consider self-harm. They blamed it on me for not having a strong relationship with God, or that my personality created flaws. After "my incident", my mother had changed a considerate amount, she tended to ignore me then burst into my room yelling with anger. 

My friend was the one who tipped our school guidance counselor that I had been cutting. If she never told our counselor my mom wouldn't have hated me so much. As soon as my parents were alerted about the situation I was sent to a therapist in another state to get 'fixed.' Therapy wasn't much of a big help, but as I continued to go more often I was able to slowly learn new coping skills, until Covid hit. The moment the world was alarmed we had hit a global pandemic all human interactions were cut short. No more therapy, no more healing but more time spent with my family. 

I have been clean for 2 years, 3 months and 18 days. Just four days ago, I restarted my old habits and like any addict I can't stop. 

The first time was on accident. My scores were dropping, people around me constantly criticized me, and my family didn't acknowledge me. I was merely living as an object to be presented around to highlight my parents success. The ring I had on was falling apart and the metal string was so delicately sharp. Just for a taste I pressed it along my finger. Before the action processed to my brain, a drop of blood fell directly onto my face; I had a small gash on my wrist. I forgot about the feeling of joy it offered and the ability to lose focus on reality. But as soon as the dopamines end, immediate guilt rushes through.

Maybe because I hadn't had any life relievers or time to cool down, rather than sticking to the metal ring, I needed to use something sharper to keep my mind off of life a little longer. (*item will not be specified for safety purposes*) Oddly this time I wasn't pooled with guilt or regret. Like a mindless creature I use concealer to hide the hideous red marks, wear a long tee and walk out. 

Does any of this make sense? If my mom knows that I'm always at some certain risk of hurting myself she should be cautious. Yet she passes it on like a growing phase and doesn't think twice that I would repeat old habits. Isn't it strange that I continue to wear long sleeves in the house? Or change my shirts twice a day? Is she just that oblivious or does she not care? How come no one finds it strange that I went through a bottle of concealer in just a few days?