Tomorrow I’ll Be Better
Daisies, broadway music floating through my body, and sunshine radiating its glory all over my room. Sounds like a good day, eh? Not really.
The sad thing is, I dont even remember what happened that day. I was around 13 years old, equipped with a few good CD’s and a pink razor, with white daisies glittered all over it. My mother bought them at CVS, she thought they would be a nice change from the standard grey ones that used to sit aimlessly in the closet.
Anyways, let me get back to where I think I began. My bed was deeper that day somehow, my whole body seemed to be engulfed into it and sit there like stone. The Forrest Gump theme song was listlessly playing in the backround, and my flowered daisy seemed to be calling my name. Sitting there all alone. Hey, I shouldn’t be selfish, my razor needed company too, right? No one should be alone. I was doing it for the razor.
Numbminded, I reached over for the piece of plastic. My trance was momentarily interupted by the moisture that dripped from my eyes and fell helplessly onto my knees. With my fist in a tight pulse, I shook and stared at my begging veins. I deserved it, the razor would love it. If I did this then everything else would be okay, it would just fall into place.
The uplifting part of the song came. My right hand was lifted. It began slicing horizontally like a pyscho with a machine gun, killing every civilian in its path without a second thought. I didn’t stop. Not until my blood started to drip on the carpet, that is.
My left forearm was suffocated with thick blood. It was pulsing, moving, keeping me company and bringing a clever grin to my face. Normal? Yes! Who defined normal anyways?
Better bandage myself up; better run into the bathroom and get some gauze strips and medical tape. Don’t worry me, me will take care of you. It’s okay me, me is here now. Me will make everything okay, so close your eyes, and relax, you’re not alone anymore.
That same pattern has been going on for about five years now. Happy to say, yes, I do change razors, and yes, my mind is in much better place. I get sick of hiding scars and wearing long sleeve shirts, even when it’s so hot that I can feel the sweat between my thighs. I was sick of being a freak, of cutting, of being me. So I have cut it down a lot, but unfortunately, every now and again I get hit with one of those ironic ‘sunshine’ days. Hey, its okay, we all do sometimes. Right?
I am 16 and I have been self-harming for 2 years. I like it when I see the blood from when I had just cut myself, I just want more. I am addicted to it and yet it’s really comforting to see the remains from cutting myself. I know I need to stop and I am trying. I haven’t cut for about 2 weeks +/- a few days. Anyway, I have these bad relapse thingies where I go into a shaking mode where I just need to cut myself. I don’t know how to explain it. My friend found out about a year ago and every time she sees me she’s like you been cutting again haven’t you, and stuff and she tries to make me stop but it’s no use, she’s not very encouraging. Anyway, I think my mom knows now and I’m very afraid of what she’ll do. My sister has a friend who has depression, she’s bipolar and she cuts and my mom calls her a freak and stuff so I am afraid to know what she’d do if she found out that I SI. So if you have any advice in how to stop or if you wanna talk, email me. By the way, I think SI is okay for people to do as long as they are okay with it within themselves.
My name is Amanda and if you were to look at me you would think that I was just a normal school girl. I’m 14, average build with dark hair and dark eyes. I like going into town and playing basketball. But there is one thing that stands out about me, my right arm is covered in scars. They vary in size. The truth behind them is that since I was 12 I have been cutting myself.
It first started when I was in year seven. It was two years after my step-dad had left me, my mum and my sister. My mum had been dating a guy called Andrew for a while. I really liked him but for some reason my sister didn’t feel comfortable around him. Perhaps she was the only one who knew that he was not right for my mum. As it happened, her feelings were yet to be proved right. Mum and Andrew used to argue quite a bit. The arguments were never violent and never in front of me or my sister. Then one night they were having a really bad row, I hated it. I sat in my room crying as they screamed at each other.
I was freshly fifteen when I began to cut. It’s been five months now, and I can hardly believe it’s been so long. My family life was always good. I wasn’t abused, I was treated well. Things were fine.
When my parents got divorced, I told myself it didn’t bother me at all, and I was fine with it. I’m still convinced it didn’t affect me, but I know that the divorce was the beginning of the end. I was thirteen when my parents got divorced. My mother moved out of the house and into an apartment. She had a new boyfriend within a week. He was okay at first, but when he moved in, he started to verbally abuse me. I was always wearing the wrong clothes or listening to the wrong music. I couldn’t do anything right. I was the big loser, and my mother agreed with him. My dad wasn’t there anymore, not emotionally anyways.
Vivid. Clear. That is how I remember the first day I ever cut myself.
I was on my computer, crying, and talking to a friend from school. Earlier, I had eaten an apple, and I used a knife to slice off pieces to eat. I saw the knife and I saw my arm. It made perfect sense to me.
I pick the knife up and cut across my upper arm. It felt wonderful.