CONTENT WARNING This article contains information about self-harm which may be triggering to some people. If you struggle with self-harm, you can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting "HOME" to 741741. For ways to cope with self-harm urges, please also refer to this resource.

Addiction can come in many different forms: alcohol, sex, drugs, even food. Addiction is an easily contractible disease that many people are just skimming the edge of. Some may even have an addiction and not even know it. If prompted, they'll deny it. Addiction is a scary and hard place to be in, but getting out and overcoming addiction is even harder.

I have an addiction. It is called self-harm.

In the way I view the world, self-harm is a worse word than addiction. Addiction and its variants can be used in everyday conversation without anyone flinching; whereas, the slight mention of self-harm causes people to become uncomfortable. Yet, both words describe mutilation of the body, but one may just be more visible.

I can trace the beginning of my addiction to late middle school. I had been bullied in elementary school and in parts of the middle school. My self-esteem was low. Similar to some addictions, I became aware of its presence by seeing it on the internet. Pictures and descriptions piqued my interest since these people were going through similar things. I didn't know how to explain to people how I was feeling, much less know how to handle it. I thought self-harm would help me cope and, once I was free from my depression, I believed that self-harm would just disappear as well. Unfortunately, it took me years to finally come to terms with the fact that depression never goes away (see Knock, Knock! It's Depression) and my addiction still haunts me here in college.

It started out innocent—scratches on the inner arm. To explain why I would voluntarily drag something sharp against myself is hard, but when your own head is screaming at you nasty things and your whole body feels like it's on fire, there's this insurmountable black hole in your chest. A simple cut on your wrist, a painful distraction from the war that is happening inside your head, feels so good. It's a way to control the uncontrollable.

So during these breakdowns, I would try and control what was happening and almost let out some of the pain from inside and I can tell you that these scratches were nowhere near as painful as what happens inside.

After about a year, the scratches were not enough anymore. Similar to drugs, even though there was no "high," I needed something more powerful, more painful. The angry red lines were not fulfilling what I needed them to do and I turned to heavier materials. I turned to self-harm in its entirety. Scratches turned into cuts and angry red lines turned into blood. During long periods of pain and depression, these cuts were pressed down upon when I was in class or when I couldn't get relief right away. However, my depression got the better of me with self-harm.

Instead of an outlet, I began to use it against myself. Self-harm was not just a way to release some of this pain, but something I felt I deserved. I deserved to be hurting on the inside and out. It became twisted. It became dark. It became my addiction. Now during breakdowns, I would cut because I did not think I was worth it and the pain would prove that to me. Every open wound and every cut that turned into a scar was a reminder of every bad thing that my depression made me believe. I craved to feel the pain because I still remembered that in some dark way, it helped, so I believed it would fix things. The addiction was at full force. I wanted the pain, the blood and eventually, the scar.

Despite people finding out over the years and pleading me to stop, I still couldn't. I began to hide the cuts, moving spots on my body or wear long sleeves and pants no matter the weather. I was addicted to how I felt when I did it and how it made me feel.

The past year has been good progress in my addiction. To finally surpass my addiction and the pain of self-harm, I first needed to handle my depression. Even now in college when I get bad breakdowns, my addiction looms in the background begging me to relapse.

It might happen one day, but I now know my secret addiction will not run my life.