I’m gonna tell your story.


I know how you feel. That you are struggling with what happens in your life, or more importantly what DOESN’T happen. It feels like no one gives a shit about you, that you will always be an outsider on the outskirts of the world.

You don’t believe you will ever have a girlfriend. Friends. Any interesting stuff.

You think you will always be alone. That life will always feel like a struggle. That there is no place for you in it.


I know how this causes you to seek distractions and avoid real life. You play games all day long. You don’t go out of the house. You skip work pretending to be ill, and in reality cannot muster to do one step out of the room, or even get up from the bed.


It almost seems like you stop feeling anything. Like nothing matters anymore. You go through your life like a zombie and there is nothing to hope for.


And then a glimpse of something new. New group of people that you stumbled upon in one of your searches through depths of the internet.

People who feel almost the same as you. Only they can feel something. They can enjoy some part of life.


They can feel and enjoy pain when cutting themselves.


It is a scary, averse concept, and you run from it at the start. But the idea stays in your mind.

It seems alluring in the midst of not feeling anything.

It feels that they are the only people in the world you belong to in some way.


So you start the cuts. Slowly.

It is scary to do the first time. You try just a little bit. Then more and more, starting to enjoy the pain. With time you get into it.

Shoulders are refreshing. Thighs are for more serious struggles. Arms when you don’t feel anything at all.


You’re doing this covertly in the shower or in the closed room. You learn how to carry a knife so no one sees. Cover the cuts.

It seems to work for a while. You got something in your life. You finally found the thing you enjoy. You finally belong somewhere. Secret group of people who are not like the rest.


Then it feels like it is not enough anymore. That you are not feeling enough pain. You cut deeper and deeper, like some others in the group, to belong even more.

You don’t care anymore about being caught. You almost enjoy parents yelling at you for it – another proof that there is nothing in life for you beside that.

You start to wish that people noticed your cuts. That would make you feel recognized. You will be unique.


But somehow after all this there is no joy in life. It just keeps getting worse.

Recognition is superficial. Pity brings anger. You withdraw from the world completely once again and pain becomes an only outlet.

It spirals down more and more for a long time.


My scars on the shoulders will remain for life.

I’m not sure how I broke that cycle. I’m not sure that something can pull you out of there quickly.


The only thing I want you to know: You will get through this. And you will find the things you actually enjoy, things that will make your life better.

As hard as it is to believe, it is possible for you to feel happy.

It doesn’t feel like there is something for you, but you will change that. Don’t need to rush. Slowly, making small steps, your life will become less painful.

You will find people that can be around. People who can help. People who you enjoy spending time with.

But more importantly, you will learn to enjoy being by yourself.


I want you to sit and think, what do you wish your life looked like. What would make you happy.

It doesn’t need to feel possible. It can be something you feel you are missing right now.

Imagine how it would feel if you had that. Just imagine that the things you want and desire the most are here, right now.

How good it would feel.


Now, with all my experience, I promise you – it is possible.

You will make it happen. 

This moment you feel. This nice girlfriend you want around. This friend who will support you. This place where you want to live.

You will have that.

It will take some time, but your life will be like you dream it would be.


You can be happy.

I give you permission to be happy.





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