thelioncub
New Member
I've been reading all the posts here, and I've decided to be brave and ask for some comments on the opening to my non-fiction book about depression and self-harm.
The book is more of a memoir aimed at people suffering with depression and/or self-harming, so I wouldn't call myself a writer as such. The book is incidental!
I'd be interested to know if you guys find yourselves wanting to read more, or if you are indifferent?
And if you are someone who knows nothing about the subject, does this opening interest you?
---------------
The Feeling
I want to cut my face to shreds; show everyone how ugly I really am, claw at the cuts with my nails until my face is stained with blood. I long for the pain to be on the outside, so that I can stare depression in the face and say, “I hate you”. Everyone tells me I can get through this, but I am terrified that they are wrong. These people are not me. I am weak, cowardly, and would give up everything rather than live my life a permanent battle. The years spent fighting are a constant burden, for they remind me that every year that I had hope, I was wrong. How can this time be so different when it is so the same? The next time I cut myself I want to go wild with it; slash my entire body so that no part of me remains unharmed. If every part of my physical self ached, it may come close to matching the dull ache I have inside. I feel that nothing can compare to the enormity of this depression, but bleeding all over may help express what can’t be explained.
The book is more of a memoir aimed at people suffering with depression and/or self-harming, so I wouldn't call myself a writer as such. The book is incidental!
I'd be interested to know if you guys find yourselves wanting to read more, or if you are indifferent?
And if you are someone who knows nothing about the subject, does this opening interest you?
---------------
The Feeling
I want to cut my face to shreds; show everyone how ugly I really am, claw at the cuts with my nails until my face is stained with blood. I long for the pain to be on the outside, so that I can stare depression in the face and say, “I hate you”. Everyone tells me I can get through this, but I am terrified that they are wrong. These people are not me. I am weak, cowardly, and would give up everything rather than live my life a permanent battle. The years spent fighting are a constant burden, for they remind me that every year that I had hope, I was wrong. How can this time be so different when it is so the same? The next time I cut myself I want to go wild with it; slash my entire body so that no part of me remains unharmed. If every part of my physical self ached, it may come close to matching the dull ache I have inside. I feel that nothing can compare to the enormity of this depression, but bleeding all over may help express what can’t be explained.