I don't remember when it started, or with what, but I was young when I found the thrill that could come from pain. Cigarette to skin, blade across my wrist. There was something pleasant about the pain.
And there was pain, but I didn't notice it, not really. It was a special sort of high that gave me the same good feeling I got from taking a toke. The discomfort was overwritten, because there was something more there.
The pain told me I was alive, that I could still feel something, so it was that pain that I craved. Sexual encounters, self harm, playing chicken with cigars, there were so many ways to get the kick I needed. Feeding the addiction was easy, stopping wasn't, itsn't, because it's stronger than any dug, because it's in your head. Your body doesn't need it, the way it needs the drug its addicted to, but your mind wants it, craves it. It's waiting for the chance, being willing to do anything to feel the burn on hot wax, the bite of needles. Discomfort means little, because it's like scratching an itch, satisfying the need, but not for long. Then it's the same old pattern, the same need, the same addiction, and always the same story.
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