Dear Self-Harm,

I hate you. It has taken me many, many years to stand up to you, my abuser. It has taken too long for you to leave my life. I want you to accept that things are over between us. There will never be a last fling. There will never be another day in which I give you the keys to my house. There is to be no more sneaking into my window at night. There is to be no more screaming at me when I disobey. I am done with your abuse, so I’m kicking you out. No apology accepted, required or given.

I have tried to leave you before. It takes everything I have to say it now, for the final time. You left my sophomore year and came crawling back less than a year later, whispering sweet nothing promises and swearing to be sweeter, less abusive, more supportive.

You terrified my family, worried my friends, and whispered horrible scenarios into the ears of those who cared for me most. You forced me to distance you from them; always standing in the way, I was caught in the crossfire between you and those I love, and you seem to have won more times than not. They kept repeating how terrible you were for me, how terrible you were for my body, for my mind, for my spirit, but you kept screaming for me to come back for more.

I never understood why you never spoke in a normal tone of voice. Always either whispering or screaming, you made the choice to take over the peace and force darkness to push out the light. You visited me at midnight, after meals, in the shower. You were an inappropriate abuser. You repeated how much I needed you, how much I deserved the pain, how badly I had screwed up this time. You screamed that I should have been a miscarriage, that I was a mistake, that no one deserved the hell it was to be my mother and father and brother. No matter how much I hated this terrible cycle of abuse, I couldn’t let go. I kept coming back for more, more, more, never ceasing to care that you gave me pain. I was addicted to the high.

I was addicted to your lies, to the false control of emotion. I was addicted to the relief and the pain and the guilt, frustration, self-loathing. I was addicted to being with you, convincing myself of how much you really loved me, repeating your lies, like lines of cocaine waiting to infect my body.

When we took our break, put our relationship through a beta test, you were good. You didn’t yell, or whisper, or take things fast, or disallow me to control my own body. But it got too much for you, didn’t it? Do you remember the horror of when I was in bed, fast asleep, and you curled your breath around me and reminded me of my insignificant, less than nothing, meaning of life without you? Do you remember yelling at me, abusing me until my hips turned red and blue and black? Do you remember how you would never, ever stop or take a break, take a breather, until I gave in?

And then you left. Left me with the pain and the guilt and the suffering and the hurt. Left me with your hand prints around my neck, your nails on my thigh, your mouth on my throat, your eyes gazing lovingly at the bony blood. You left me with scarred skin and teary eyes and hateful thoughts. You left me all alone, not giving me the usual satisfaction from following your rules. You forgot to give me pleasure for listening to you, forgot to love me for obeying. You forgot to care, to watch, to feed me. Or maybe you remembered, but just didn’t care.

It’s hard being alone after being in such a deeply abusive relationship for four years. You had a key to my apartment, a key to my heart, a key to my mind. It’s time to move on. I want the keys back. I don’t want to be your servant anymore. I want to shower when I want to shower. I want to not see you leering at me, violating my thoughts, every time I change my clothes, go swimming, wear shorts. You disgust me. I disgust myself for putting up with you for so long. So I’m kicking you out. You have plenty of other friends and family to be with, to mourn with, to torment. I wish you weren’t so popular, wish you were the quiet kid who never got much attention. I wish you were isolated in the same way that you’ve made me feel in the past year. One day, I hope that all your friends find the strength and courage to take the keys back, wash their hair, and leave you homeless on the streets.

Thank you for being there during some of the worst times in my life. You provided a relief that no human could, and I will miss that. You’ve kept me from pushing too far into suicide, for you provided a taste of death and pain and relief in one fell swoop, one that satisfied my craving to disappear, one that left me with damage. I am now scarred. My skin is scarred, yes, but so is my heart and soul. They have fresh cuts on them, darkened masses where I scratched deep, where you wormed your way into my thoughts and released cold vines around my mouth, saying “don’t tell.” As much as you have helped me, you have also made me ashamed of you. I am ashamed to say that you and I ever met. I am ashamed to say those words. “I was in an abusive relationship.” So, I hid. I hurt people. I screamed and scratched and kicked and screamed and ran. I left time and time again, only to return a mere fifteen minutes later, head hung low in shame and arm, hip, thigh bleeding heavily as the evidence of our rendezvous pierced the minds of critical glances and open states.

As tempting as it is to take you back in, scrawny and cold, I must continue to starve you as you have me for the past four years. This is it. I thank God daily that I did not get what you told me I deserved.

Goodbye forever.