The zebra girl

Trigger warning: Talks about self-harm and romanticizes and glorifies scars from cutting. It describes scars and cuts in detail. Read the trigger warning page here. Take care of yourself first and foremost. And remember that self-harm is NOT a competition. It’s dead serious. 

I remember the summer one and a half years ago. I was visiting with my cousins, and it was so hot. One of my cousins and their kids suggested we go swimming in the lake, and it was a splendid idea. We had all used to go there when we were kids. My siblings and I, and all of my cousins, and we’d have so much fun! … I assume. Because I can’t really remember it well. I just know that the memory comes with the feeling of being content, and safe.

I used to cover up my scars back then. On my arms, but even more so on my legs, and thighs. So a bathing suite was pretty much (read: definitely) out of the question. I used a pair of sports tights and a tank top, hid my arms mostly in the water. And I was so self-conscious about the scars. I hated them. I was afraid of what my cousins would think. Not of what they would say, because they would never say anything. But I worried they’d think, judge, maybe even talk about me behind my back after. Or worst case, not really get why I did it and ASK! They didn’t, and hopefully they didn’t judge or talk about me behind my back. It worked out fine, I guess. I swam in the lake and had a good time, even if all the time I was self-conscious about the tights and about my arms. I kept grieving over my whole skin that I had lost forever. The pale, even skin with nothing but freckles, that now was cut up in too many scars to ever count. But I didn’t wanna let the scars stop me from going swimming on one of the hottest days of the summer! So I didn’t. And with time I’ve learnt to give less of a shit about my scars, and maybe some of that comes from seeing the “zebra girl” there by the lake that day.

On a blanket on the grass by the water two girls sat laughing, eating strawberries. Each one in a bikini. And what caught my attention after the laughing, and the blanket, and the strawberries, and the blissful aura from them, was her scars. Scars, scars, scars. It’s the first time I’ve really seen anyone other than myself in real life with self-harm scars. (I think, at least never anything like this.) And this wasn’t a tiny bit, or a few. They were big, red, thick, long, white, many. Over her entire body. Some scars made it look like it was a miracle she even had her legs fastened to her body. I was intrigued. I could barely catch myself, and look away. I kept sneaking glances, checking her face every so often to see if she could see me staring, checking on my cousins to see that they couldn’t see that I was staring, and if I was in the clear, I stared! My heart was filling with a strange positive feeling from those scars, and I wanted to cut myself. I wanted to have my body just as filled with scars as hers was. I wanted the beauty from her scars. I wanted cuts that probably had taken 25 stitches each. I wanted those red, burning scars that no one could miss to see. I wanted to be as good as her at hurting myself. I felt like mine wasn’t good enough. I wanted her perfectly fucked up skin. They were gruesome, showed several years of tragedy, but here she was on a summers day laughing, and I kinda felt like I fell in love with her scars. I wanted them, and I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to see blood ooze from my skin, in rectangles and lines, and parallels. I wanted the deep red to pierce the pale pink. And then the ugly scar to turn to bright pink, glowing of the hurt. Glowing with my pain. I both deserved it as punishment, and I deserved it as a token of my pain. Criss, cross, zebra girl.

Truth is, there is nothing beautiful about scars from hurting oneself. It’s misery written in your skin. It’s pain oozing out from within. It’s surviving from wanting to die. And it’s a memory from what I want to forget the most, the most painful days, weeks, months and years of my life. A reminder of the worst part of those days. A reminder of times when nothing else worked. A reminder of a time when all I could do was survive. But still, last summer I wore a bikini to the beach. I know, I know, not with my cousins, and there were only strangers, but still. Because they’re not beautiful, and they’re not something to be proud of, but they’re a sad part of me that I have to live with. And I want to live with them the way she did, laughing, eating strawberries with a friend, on a blanket by the water, for everyone to see. I wanna carry them like the rest of my skin, just there. Not remembering it all the time. Forgetting it because I’m so caught up laughing, because I’m so caught up living, or so caught up loving.

Her scars definitely triggered me, I was intrigued and captivated and somewhat spellbound. My mind put a filter on what I saw and put bright colors on the images and glorified it. I couldn’t help it, it was subconscious. The scars I hated on my body was something I wanted when I saw them on hers. The scars that was ugly, pathetic and signs of weakness was beautiful and daring on hers. And I wanted that. But thinking back on it now, I can’t help but wonder if maybe it wasn’t her scars I wanted, but the laughter, the aliveness, the seemingly blissful moments of joy, despite her scars. And no matter if she triggered me, and made me want to cut, she also made me believe that I could wear my scars like just another piece of regular skin, and not a glowing mark of how useless and worthless I felt. She made me believe I could have them (like I have to for the rest of my life) and still maybe learn how to laugh out loud, and be busy living my life, and not covering and hiding. My scars didn’t have to be all of me, all people saw when they looked at me, or signs that people could judge me by. They could be there, and I could be beautiful. A zebra girl.

Take care, Marie


Next to no one

It’s 1am and I find myself questioning whether I’m lying in this bed because I want to or because the high from your appreciation and gentle touch somehow makes the pain disappear, and it’s not really wanting it, but desperately needing it. And does that mean I’m really the one who’s using you, and not the other way around. Does this make me weak, easy, a bad human being? Does this mean I’m compromising who I am and what I’m willing to do, because I’m too starved of feeling wanted, liked and valued? I think I want it because I want it, but how can I really know? And the worst of it all: No matter how many people love me, adore me, appreciate me, want me, need me … It will never be enough, because I can’t feel it.



I’m a worthless piece of trash, am I not?

Last night I couldn’t get to sleep before 6 am. And you know what? That’s what I deserve. The self-loathing and shame, and guilty conscience for merely being alive is at an all-time high. In some way I don’t really hate myself, I think I have good values and I treat people well, but still … I just have this rock solid conviction that I’m worthless, and deserve pain, suffering and death.

This night I don’t think I should sleep at all. After all I got 5 hours of sleep last night/morning, and that should be enough for such a idiot like me.

I just want to tell everyone out there that is suffering: YOU DON’T DESERVE THE PAIN! You really don’t. And as someone commented on my post, it may be hypocritical to say that to others when one cannot believe in it oneself, but that is what depression does to you. It makes you believe you are the sole exception. The only human on the planet who’s worthless, who’s nothing. No one deserves the pain that comes from hopelessness, helplessness and overwhelming sorrow, but me. This is what depression makes us all believe. But I want to tell all of you who’s in pain right now: You don’t deserve it. It will get better.

But not for me. 

XO – Marie

I wish there was a doctor who could stitch my life up, pull all the edges together

I sit in the emergency room getting stitches. The doctor is asking me if I’m feeling ashamed of what I’ve done, if I’m ashamed of my self-harm. In between my outbursts of hysterical laughter, I manage to tell him that I am. That it’s not just the self-harm I’m ashamed of, but also the fact that I’m miserable and depressed. Because who am I to be sad when I got everything material settled, when I got a nice family and good friends? Who am I to spill a single tear, who am I to feel hurt, and feel the pain of the world pushing on my shoulders? I’m ashamed that I’m sick. Not because I think that mentally ill should be ashamed, of course not, not for a second. But because I am a worthless piece of shit, and I shouldn’t be allowed to feel pain, I should just suck it up and get over it, right?

I’m sitting on the exam table, bending my leg over, so he’ll be able to access the gaping hole in my body. I can barely keep still, I’m laughing so much. I’m loopy, and even if I try to stop howling, I can’t. I can barely pull myself together to answer his questions. But at the same time I’m totally clear inside my head. It feels like I’m trapped there. My thoughts are spinning, but I’m still clear, I’m still aware of how I sound, how I look. Shame isn’t really the feeling that fills me, it’s frustration. Frustration that it isn’t tears I’m hiding behind the hands covering my face. It’s an idiotic laugh, that doesn’t fit the situation at all. I’m not happy! So why am I laughing so hard, desperately, frantic?

He’s giving me a local anesthetic, it stings. Then I sit there watching him pressing the needle in and out of my skin, pulling the edges together. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? How could I make a hole in my skin? How could I cut deep into myself like that? How is that possible? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? … And how …  sigh …  how is it possible to be trapped inside yourself, yelling to yourself about being quiet, and still keep laughing as you see a doctor neatly putting you back together again? Where is the control? Where is the sense in that?

I get a valium, and go back home. I know that I’m stitched up, put together, fixed … but I’m not. I’m broken. I’m fucking broken, and I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t even know where all the shattered pieces are. I don’t know why I should even care about pulling it together. Why not just trash this life, it’s broken anyways? I take the valium, and some extra sleeping pills, and am grateful that I have a low tolerance, I barely make it to the bed from the couch once it starts working. I literally dive into bed, with my clothes on, and I’m taken away.

Sadly there’s a morrow.



PS: The doctor was amazing. He was real nice, probably the nicest I’ve met in the depressed, I hurt myself, I need help situation. I was glad I met someone who didn’t seem to judge me, I needed someone like that, though, don’t we always?


There is nothing, I say nothing
that makes me want

Can you get away from me
can you leave me alone?
Don’t leave me!

I don’t know how to breathe
Don’t be stupid,
you don’t need to know
how to breathe
but I don’t know still

Fuck off, you’re perfect
I’m not worth it

Don’t leave me
You’re not perfect, I know that
But you are

The world told me lies and I believed them

When I was a kid, I thought like a kid, I talked like a kid, and I reasoned like a kid. I believed the world, and the things you told me. You said 2+2 is 5 and my truth became 2+2 is 5. You said blue was yellow and green was blue, so I talked of a yellow sky and of a green sun. You told me up was down and down was up, left was right, and right was wrong. You said I shouldn’t cry, and fighting against it would make it worse, so I kept quiet and believed you when you said I deserved it. You told me east was north and south was west, and I ended up walking in the wrong direction. You told me dreams were lies and hope was fake. You told me I was nothing. You said tears were joy and smiles were evil, so I didn’t smile. You promised me you came with realities, that what you spoke was truth. But the only truth I know now is that a promise is a lie.

2+2 isn’t 5, it’s 4. Trees are green and the water is blue, it’s wrong that is wrong, not right. Nothing falls up, and everything is something. When my truth became a wrong, how do I know what to believe in anymore? How do I know who I can trust? When a promise is a lie, what is real?

I made a mistake in believing the lies that the world told me, but I’m making a mistake when I don’t believe in the truths it tells me now too. But I can’t know which is which. How do I know when you’re deceiving me, and when you’re pulling me out of the fire? How do I know when to jump, and when to curl up in a fetal position and wait for everything to pass? I crashed into the world, and into the pain. I crashed, crashed, crashed. I know the risk, and I’m afraid.

I am afraid.

I know how far down I can fall. I know how hard it is to walk on a tightrope. I know the mud and how it feels like quicksand. I know how it is when you’re goinggoingoing, but you get nowhere, like in a hamster wheel. I know no hope and I know darkness. And I know all this because I trusted. I trusted the world like a kid, because I was a kid. And the promises were lies. And truths were lies. My truth became a wrong, and I don’t know what or who to believe in anymore.

When I was a kid, I thought like a kid, I talked like a kid, and I reasoned like a kid. I believed the world and the things you told me. You said the earth was flat and everything revolved around it. You said that loud was quiet and hard was soft, so I talked of quiet thunder and soft pushes. You told me dangerous was safe, and pain was good. You said that some people deserve torment, so I tormented myself. You promised me you came with realities, that what you spoke was truth. And you told me I was worthless.