I wish I knew why I did it. Is it for the pain? Do I deserve it? Is it to stop the feelings? The anxiety? The anger? The sadness? Or is it to feel something? To stop the greyness from seeping in and drowning me? Or am I just addicted? Do I crave the rush I feel before the shame comes back? Sometimes I think it’s all these things, other times I feel like there is no reason that I’m just trying to make myself different, to give myself a more interesting story. That’s what I’m most afraid of, not the scars, the cravings or the pain but the pathetic need to be something more. To be alive when I’m already living.