Withdrawal

Hello. Here as requested.

In a word: visceral.

I feel like the balance is off, here. You spend the majority of this work describing the pain, of it happening, of the withdrawal. I don't think you have too much of this, but I do think you have not enough of the recovery. Your visceral descriptions, jagged imagery and ache so potent I can taste it soften out in... not a bad way, because in a sense it's a metaphor for everything, but the connection fades.

I want to feel recovery as much as I feel addiction. I want to watch other things fill up life until in my own mind the cutting is an afterthought. Right now you're showing the addiction and withdrawal, while telling the recovery. We don't get to see the nights add up to anything positive, just the agony of enduring then relief then in the blink of an eye there's "better."

Which I realize mirrors the way recovery tends to go. But I'd just like to see a little more of those days with friends. A little more of those phone calls. A little more of those days focusing in class.

I'd like to see the recovery as much as I see the pain.

All in all, strong writing. I just feel the purpose of the piece— showing it gets better— is a little bit lost since there is so little strength to the "get better" part. The switch flip was also a little clunky, as was the reaction to relapse. That's really where it falls apart, for me, because there's this relief but the refusal to fall back into it doesn't have any narrative weight. I was rather surprised it showed up, actually, because the seduction back into cutting and the withdrawal was so viscerally described. I was quite surprised the end was recovery just because the setup for it wasn't explored.

Hope this helps. Let me know if you have any questions or comments.

~Rosey

Hello, RoseAndThorn! I'm here to review your work! I'm sorry in advance if my review isn't all that helpful. I'm trying to become a better reviewer, but I'm still not used to reviewing some of the things I'm going to mention in this review.

This was a very powerful, well-written piece, and I'm not sure if my review can do it justice.

You mentioned in your author's note that you were worried about the switch between present and future tense, and I feel like that was a valid concern. I feel the sudden usage of the future tense was jarring to the reader and disrupted the flow. I would suggest sticking to the present tense throughout the story because it was what kept me the most engaged in the story you were trying to tell.

I've never been in a similar situation to the protagonist, but I feel like the pain and difficulty they faced was very realistic. You showed the struggle of trying to stop a harmful habit, and how easy it is to sleep back into it. Even though I never self-harmed, I felt like I could understood someone that did. And that's a very amazing thing for a writer to be able to do, so I applaud you for that.

The writing in your short story flowed perfectly. As I mentioned earlier, the only thing I found jarring was the switch from present tense to future tense. Other than that, I was completely engaged in your story. Besides the wording that you chose, the usage of second person kept me in the world of your narrative. It was the perfect choice for a short story like this.

I hope this review helped. I really enjoyed reading your work, and I'm sorry if any part of my review seemed harsh! Also, please feel free to PM me if something I said doesn't make sense. I'd be happy to explain it to you. Keep up the great work - which I doubt you'll have trouble with - and good luck on your writing endeavors! I hope you have a wonderful day/night!

I really felt a bit comforted when I read this, I won't lie. Reading this made me tear up a tiny bit because it hits really close to home for me.

The poem itself is very beautiful. The subject matter is very difficult to discuss about for me, and this is something I can show to my non-suicidal friends who don't understand it very well. Thank you for that.


However, there are some typos. For a few examples, apologise should be apologize, and recognising should be recognizing. But I wouldn't sweat about it.

All in all, amazing job! This is one of the few story boo that made me cry. Keep up the good work, love!

It will come as a spontaneous decision aswhile you lie in bed one night. You've thought about it before, of course, but you didn't think[never thought you had the resolve. Now you wonder if you could possibly hold to a whim like this, and either get rid of the 'and' or the comma. shouldn't you be more prepared first, but you decide it can't hurt to try. So as you lie there listening to the constant whirl of the fan blades, you tell yourself you are committed. I like this opening in a twisted, this is so cool and I want to see where it goes kind of way. I think you really draw your readers in by actually engaging them into the novel by making them the protagonist of your story with replacing the pronoun 'I' with 'you' so good job.

The next day, it feels weird to skip this part of your routine. And what is this part of the routine? Is it what had been applied above or is it something completely different?You think about breaking your promise- after all, it didn't really mean anything, did it?- but you're curious to see how long you'll last, so you don't.

It's all you can think about. You obsess now. Every moment of every day, you imagine holding it against your skin, feeling it slide in delicious defiance. You miss it. You crave it. You tell yourself it's not worth it if you have to live like this. You wonder if this obsession will ever fade, but you don't see how. This impossible feeling sits in your throat and makes it hard to breathe. I really like this paragraph. I think that it really speaks to me as a reader.

To distract yourself, you write a list of all the reasons you should break this streak as you sit in class. You've passed the one week mark, but you find no comfort in this- after all, it only means you have a whole new week of hell to get through.

You should try to work on smoothing out your transitions a little.

You sit on the floor of your bathroom. It rests in your hand. You gaze at it in wonder, caressing it lovingly. You raise your arm. And you wait. Long moments pass. You cannot seem to breath. You realize how close you are to what you cannot have, realize that there is nothing to keep you from it. I love how you are writing with a little bit of mystery. However, it would be nice if you gave your readers a few things here and there. Sometimes we need you to just come out and say a few things. A time span equivalent to eternity passes. And then- you do notdon't understand why or how I think we could find out how, but somehow you are throwing it across the room. You instantly want to go and retrieve it, to apologiseapologize for rejecting it, but you are lifeless. It's not fair. A soundless scream works itself through your clenched teeth, and your eyes burn, but you haven't shed tears in many years, and you don't think your body remembers how to cry.

Again, there needs to be better transitions from one idea to another.

The first cigarette makes you cough and choke. The ninth is easier. Soon you don't notice the smoke as you breathe in the soothing numbness and revel in this forbidden glory.

It's now been three weeks, and you feel rage. You cannot control your temper. You find yourself lashing out at everyone without understanding why, kicking rocks furiously as you walk home, lying awake at night feeling empty and alone. It seems as though the world is determined to keep you from the one thing you want most, and you're prepared to fight for it- except there's no one to fight.You keep mentioning "the one thing you want most" but the reader has no idea what that one thing is. We can assume something or another based off of context clues, but if you truly want your reader to feel the full punch of your words and what you are trying to say here, then you want to make clear what this one thing is. There's only yourself and your own stupid promise. You hate yourself for that night.

You want to die. This is not a new desire, but it's a new feeling- you feel betrayed, and whiney, like a child denied a favorite toy. The rebellion is gone, but the tears have returned. You are constantly crying now. Why can't you have it? Why can't you die? Why is life so unjust? It's not like you mean to hurt anyone.Ok, so is dying the thing that the 'you' is wanting so bad. If so, that's fine but again, somehow give it to us earlier without giving away the punch.

Two months have gone by, and you don't know how you've survived. The slow, empty ache has returned. You often sleep curled up on the floor beside your bed now, because it seems safer than the soft warmth of the mattress. It occurs to you that two months is an accomplishment, that it's enough- you can end the torture now. Just once, then you'll stop. Just once what? To push the thought away, you call a friend to hang out for the day. When she mentions the smell of cigarettes, you shrug it off and say your neighbor has a bad habit, and make a mental note to cut back.

Four months in, and you still cannot stop thinking about it. Every night you imagine it. Every day you plot little ways to get it. You slip out to the restroom and think, I could do it now. You find yourself home alone, and wonder how many it would have been this time.

You spend nights looking up "self harm" on Google images, grimacing at the results, reading through every story with a trigger warning you can find. It makes you feel a little better, almost like it's happening to you. But it's never quite enough to block out the sharp pain in your chest.

Six months. You realize most of your scars have faded, and that makes you feel unbearably sad.

At seven months and three weeks you finally crack. Four little lines. The relief and peace are overwhelming, and you fall asleep in bed for once with a smile. The next day, more. And the third. After three days, you promise yourself you will try again.

This time it's easier, in a way. Not easy, but you find comfort in recognisingrecognizing the pattern. You do not smoke this time. You do not lock yourself in your room for weeks at a time and scream and throw things and sob brokenly on the tile floor. Sometimes you sit quietly in your closet for a few hours with your eyes closed, allowing the pain to creep through your heart and find the stony resolve there, waiting for the desperate need to settle into a quiet throbbing longing, before going out to join your friends again.

You pass the seven months and three weeks from before, and then you pass one year. A whole year of this hell. You suppose you should feel some sort of pride, but there is only the fear that this longing will never go away.

Today, it has been one year, three months and six days. You think back over the past year. You realize that you have begun to laugh, tentative and shy laughter. You have begun to love the smell of the fresh ocean breeze. You have gone whole days without the thought ever crossing your mind. The fear of the unknown remains, but you also realize you are excited to see what comes next. And you begin to think that maybe, somehow, you will survive.