When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside -- walking through their days with no idea who they are.
My thoughts are messy, my emotions are messy, my body goes in and out at will. The raised white scars on my arms and legs are the only aspect of my being that comes close to minimalism. They came from chaos, but it is hard to carve frustration and unease into the flesh. Only straight lines.
Her seeming coldness was always either one of two things -- intense repression, or passionate reserve. Never, in anything, for one instant, would she be indifferent.
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years -- minus a two year period. This website was made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.
