The Course of My Life
I had a beautiful and carefree childhood.
But as I was eleven my life started to go into pieces. I’m kind of highly gifted, and my intelligence didn’t serve me well at this time. The people in my class just felt hatred towards me, they burnt my clothes and books, they hit me in the brakes till I was lying on the floor, crying. A brother of a classmate tried to rape me in the school toilets, but the only thing I remember are my torn clothes and the bruises on my wrists and thighs. Some even tried to kill me once after school. They couldn’t stand me. I grew older (in fact I was thirteen), I found friends who didn’t care if I am popular or not, they liked me and I felt well, the only disadvantage was, they were all drug-addicted, I tried out some morphine and heroine, I loved the flash, so I got addicted too. Henceforward, my school marks and so on got worse, but I didn’t care. After some month my parents planned to move house, they wanted me to grow up in a better environment than I did. Two days before we moved my former boyfriend took an overdose of H, he died. I tried to do as he did, but I haven’t managed to, that’s why I decided to give up drugs, but at the moment I gave up drugs I started cutting. I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, it had to quit.
We moved house as we wanted to, life started to calm down. I was clean and had good marks at school; I gained some buddies I could go out with. Everything was good. Then an awful thing happened, my best friend died in a car accident, he was the only man I ever loved. His death changed my life completely, I used to cut just more and more, I even started burning, I got more depressed and I had some bulimic problems, I drank far too much. The feelings inside of me vanished and left nothing but a big hole of emptiness I had to live with. Life had to go on somehow, after a year I started ‘living’ again, I had relationships, one of them was a very nice one, I got pregnant and I really wanted to have the baby, but I lost it in the 16th week of pregnancy, again I blamed myself, I dropped my boyfriend, I started taking drugs to get over the loss of my baby. I took some xtc, speed, cocaine, lsd. Just some dope or stimulant stuff. I went to parties and danced till I was barely alive. My family noticed that something wasn’t right, they sent me on holiday to France. Two weeks, I ran out of dope the second day. I had to become clean again, and I succeeded. Two years my life kept going on peacefully, I managed to stop cutting for ten months. Again I had a new relationship, we even got engaged and soon after it I noticed, we did not fit together, I tried to explain myself, but he wouldn’t listen. He just pressed me against the wall and fucked me until I was bleeding inside. This violation made me cut again and I started to take cocaine. Certainly I took revenge on this guy, but even this can’t make undone what he had done to me. After some months of self-pitying I stopped to cut for a while, and I stopped taking drugs, I just used to smoke a joint once in a fortnights time, and after two month I could get rid of this habit too. I became a blood donor. I put on too much weight. I had relationships, but none I was really attached to. They all ended in pain, and I was the one to blame, but I still was indifferent. There was another reverse. Some good friends of mine died In a short period. I started cutting again, I couldn’t live without cocaine and carried on smoking joints everyday, damn, I was a blood donor. So I tried to become clean somehow. I threw my drugs in the toilet and henceforward I drank myself stupid, sometimes unconscious every night. The drugs in my blood disappeared and thank God I haven’t become dependent on alcohol. I was able to donate blood again; I managed to put some order into my life, anyway, I was happy, but numb inside. Now: I’m still the same, I do not take drugs anymore, I’m a blood donor, I go to the doctor regularly, I even go to church regularly, I have got loads of friends who adore me, I have an excellent job, I earn my living, but I’m still the same, the same, numb little girl who has been left alone, who has suffered too much pain and who doesn’t know what it feels like to be protected. I’m strong and self — confident in society, but when I’m on my own, my fear start crawling outside, I fear the future and I fear myself. I cut and burn, I lose control about it. I want to cut away the memories. I want to cut away my anger and my fear. I wished I could cry, but my tears vanished years ago yet I’m crying blood, that’s it.
Sonnet to Cuts
I adorne my arm with long incisions,
I choose the spot with precise decision.
Fast and hard, the blade is pulled across skin,
Hating myself so, because I’m a sin.
But always repeat; to feel the rush
Of blood and calm, my arm begins to blush
Red with inflicted pain. My hurt then flows
Out of my system. No longer the hoes
And bitches can scar, brake, or hurt my soul;
They only get my arms; Now I feel whole
For a few hours. Then when I’m forced
To leave my room and enter to the course
Of our so called beloved life. One day
You’ll see my shell, my overdue debt payed.
That’s what cutting was like for me. I don’t do it as often because I gave in to a friend’s plea to stop, but I get strong urges, and give in to tiny nicks every now and then. I first started this because my mom was really controlling, and I felt that smoking dope and cigarettes and drinking weren’t enough. So thus began my blissful disease (I know it might sound sick being said like that) with three little cuts. And that was all until October of 2004, my freshman year of high school. That’s the month that my favorite person died, my grandpa (lets call him Papa). We all knew that this was coming, because he was recovering from a fatal case of pneumonia, but I didn’t want to believe it when it happened: I loved him so much I convinced myself that he would live forever. But we all know that that can’t happen. I blame myself deeply on this subject because I had the chance to spend all summer with him, and I chose to only stay a week (the summer before October). I don’t know what had happened, I guess I was just scared of the truth, seeing him lying in that bed all day, to weak to walk, having a piss tube and stuff like that. Well, the next thing I knew, I was seeing his dead body when my family went back for the funeral services. From then until Feburary, I was slashing up my arms, and nobody knew, until I confessed to my best friend because I was scared that anyday, I was going to kill myself, because truthfully, that was my aim. Now don’t go and think that just because I wanted to kill myself that all cutters want to do that, because that’s not true. Cutting is a way to let out unwanted pain; a way to open your skin to let out the hurt — different people have different ways to deal with life’s corruptions. I just wanted to get that out, because I don’t want to go to a clinic or something, and this is the closest way to get help without being labeled as “crazy” or “insane teen” and whatnot. I just want to say one last thing: I regret nothing.
So this is what they call life?
This is my story — told through the eyes of a hurting teen. As of today, I am fifteen and I’ve been through hell. Sure, I’ve got long blonde hair, and baby blue eyes, I’ve got the looks, I’ve got the smarts, I’ve got friends, but that’s not all life is. I used to think, that if there is no true happiness in your life, it’s pointless to even be here. If I could have had any wish a year ago, any wish, I would have wished that I never even existed. The world would be a better place without me, and I truly believed that.
You see, I started out living a ‘normal* life. Then, there were three suicides in our school within six months of each other. My grandma died a year later. One of my closest friends tried to kill himself, and came running to my house with a gunshot wound to his head. I was traumatized by this, and wouldn’t eat, sleep, and if I had the choice, I wouldn’t have breathed. All I wanted in life, was to die.
One month after my friend tried to kill himself, one of my friends succeeded in her suicide. I went to her memorial service, awestruck. I spent that summer in hopelessness, and deep depression. My parents were both extremely busy, and were never at home. I was the only child there, and I felt so alone.
Cutting became my companion. It started out just two or three, then ended up six or seven, and the number grew. I started out a cutter, then, attempted suicide several times. Obviously, not succeeding. Overdose many times, gun twice, cutting. But here I am. For some reason, I am still here.
After that miserable summer, one month after we went back to school, three of my friends were killed in a car accident, which happened exactly three minutes after I crossed the same exact spot. No exaggeration. This only added to my depression. I continued to cut, and thought that no one new, because no one had ever said anything to me. My parents knew about my suicide attempts, but had never done anything about them, nor talked to me about them. They ignored them, just as if they had never happened. Just like they ignore my hurt, as if I don’t even have it.
Out of the blue, one day, my parents took me to a psychotherapist. One conversation with her, and she tells my parents that if they do not put me into a psychiatric hospital, she will call the law on them. And they did it, they left me standing there in the hospital, traumatized, behind locked doors, tears streaming down my face. If I didn’t truly want to die before, I did then.
They put me on medication in the hospital, and had me see many counsellors and psychotherapists. They all asked me the same question, ‘Why did your parents wait so long to get you help if they knew?’ I had no answer to give them. The answer in my head was, because they don’t care about me, and they don’t care if I’m here, so they didn’t care if I killed myself. If I just died, then they wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.
When I finally got out of the hospital, I didn’t want to be touched or talked to by anyone. How could my parents let that happen to me? How could they just leave me there like that? I have somewhat gotten over being in that hospital, and it has been seven months. Life has continued basically the same as before I went into that hospital, except for the fact that with the medication, I can handle things a little easier, and everything doesn’t feel so overwhelming.
I am currently in therapy to overcome all of the things that have hurt me in my past. I seldom cut myself deep enough to leave scars anymore. Thoughts of suicide were almost completely vanished from my mind. I can’t decipher between it being my fear of being put in a hospital again, or if I truly am healing. Emotionally and physically, I have scars that will last me for a lifetime.
But my reason for writing this, is not to pour out my life story on you. It is to give those who feel hopeless, hope, even if it’s just a tiny ounce. Life is hard, I know. Sometimes, all we want to do is give up, but why take the easy way out? Don’t prove to people that you are weak, prove to them you are strong. Life’s battle is tough, but it’s a battle worth fighting for. Whatever you are going through, I can’t promise that like magic, it will disappear, but I do know from experience, that you can get through it.
Believe in yourself. And if you think that no one understands what you’re going through, take a moment, and think, somewhere around the world, someone is going through something exactly like you, if not even worse. Don’t give up. For God’s sake, please, just don’t give up. You only have one life to live, and you only have one body. Make the scars on your body if you choose, but remember, one day, you may decide to quit cutting, and those scars will be there, and they are only a reminder of the bad times you have been through. They only bring back bad memories. Nothing good comes from them.
I regret them, you will too. And if you take your life, there is no turning back. Once you’re gone, you can’t decide, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to pull that trigger, I want to go back’. It doesn’t work like that. And at this exact moment as you are reading this, I hope you realize just how precious your life is, as I have just realized.
It all started by accident when I was nine. I didn’t know it would turned into an addiction, but it did. For the last six years I have been in and out of hospitals, on and off meds, and battling depression and anorexia. I never thought I had a problem, but eventually I grown to me being crazy. Truth is I like being crazy and for some reason I wanna get better but I don’t. I like being the outcast, it gives people something to talk about. I tried to kill myself thirteen times. Some of them weren’t on purpose they just happened. My parents know about the SI, but they don’t know about my eating disorder. I wonder if they actually care. Or if anybody does for that matter. I wonder who will be affected by my death. Sadly I’ve come up with no one of any importance in the end I’m left thoughtless, no answers, no questions, no reasons, no nothing. I’m just an empty shell every time it gets filled I slowly melt away and became empty again.
I am addicted to pain. I think that is why I run cross country. It is a safe way for me to channel my energy. Not to boast but I have accomplished a lot, a state title a few course records and respect. But through that I had to drag myself through hell to get where I am today. I recovered from an eating disorder that lasted about two years. Recovering from the eating disorder left my body useless. I wasn’t able to run as fast as I should have been running but I couldn’t keep starving myself because it was going to hurt me in the future. Cutting was easier to get away with without harming my body and performance in running. Still the past follows me around. I am nineteen and I have osteoporosis. I had received a scholarship to run cross country and now I can’t even run because my legs are fractured. I have once again turned to cutting. Cutting is my way of channeling all that I can’t control into the blade of the knife.
Cutting is such a big part of my life. I need it some days like a drug. I have to do it, I have to see the blood. I don’t feel anything. I go through cycles where I can cut all I want but I have to stop at a certain time so that the scars can heal enough that people won’t notice them. I don’t want to stop cutting. I love it, but it hurts everyone around me. They tell me that it’s not healthy. But honestly I could be doing worse things. So I find myself lying to keep my best friend, “my blade”, while I lose all my real friends. And then there are just my good friends that accept that I will get over it when I chose to.
I have been cutting now for three years and I think I will for the rest of my life.
Well I’ve been cutting for what I think is about 2 years. I don’t rember the first time doing it. I don’t even remember why. All I know is that I need it but yet want to stop it because I don’t like needing to hurt myself to make it through a day. I’m so paranoid that someone is gonna find out about my SI. When I say that I’m worried that someone that cares will find out about my self injury becasue now a few people know and only one has seemed to care. But he won’t tell anyone because he also SI’s or at least used to and knows how I feel remotely. Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the strength to stop altogether but stopping for a week is a great accomplishment for me. SI is my way of being me and I’m not sure what would happen if I stopped altogether. The Amber everyone knows would disappear…
Hello my name is Amber and I want to tell you how I and my very best friend Maria became one:
Me and Maria have known one another since middle school but it wasn’t until a shocking day in English class that we realized that we both have the same secret. The same problem. And that problem isn’t boys, drugs, drinking, or school work, it’s self-injury, known to us as “cutting”. I thought that I was the only one in our valley that had this need. The need of the razor in my hand. The feeling of want and pleasure when the sharp blade tore into my flesh. The blood running out of my arms and legs, as I couldn’t be more miserable sitting in my dark room with a smile on my face because of all the feelings that hurting yourself can bring. But then she came, like a death angel from nowhere, from my dreams maybe, from my sad heart that just longed to be normal, or maybe from my mind that just wanted to be free, wherever it was Maria came from I sure was glad that she was here. She understood me from day one when I told her my name, day two when I told her my life, day three when I told her I cut, day four when she told me she cut, and day five when we exchanged stories, day six when we showed scars, day seven when we understood we weren’t alone anymore, day eight when we cried, day nine when we cut together, and day ten when we cut each other. And she is still here today, six months later. And I think that she is here to stay, she won’t leave she needs me, and I need her, without her, I know that I wouldn’t be here.
She understood me when I cried. When I screamed. When I hurt. The way I felt. And yes she even agreed with me when I told her that we needed help. And she was there holding my hand when we pushed open the door to the guidance office to tell the world about our obsession. We have stopped for about 6 months now and the way that we keep ourselves away from the tormenting blade is to write. We write everything. Everything we feel, everything we want, everything we see, and everything we know. It helps but we still miss the knife. And I think that we always will. We still see a shrink we tell them stuff but we don’t tell them everything and that is the way it will stay.
Am 15 years old in 10th grade, and I’ve been cutting for about 7 years now, since I was 8. I’ve been raped twice (both in 9th grade), and molested 6 times (once in kindergarden, three times in 3rd, and twice in 5th), and beat by various people. I started to cut becuase I can’t cry, or rather, I won’t allow myself to cry. I then started to do it more because I felt numb, and not alive, and the blood represented the life, and feelings that I couldn’t feel. I then turned to whenever I thought I needed to, whenever something would upset me the slightest bit. When I get upset I lose sense of reality a lot of the time, and I dont realize I even do it, until the next morning when I find the cuts, or words marked into my arms, legs, shoulders, stomach, or ankles.
I’m very separated from people, they intimidate me, and I don’t trust them, I don’t want to chance getting caught with my secret. I was caught once, and put in therapy. My mom thinks I’m fine now, and I portray that; I act all happy, when in reality I am dead inside. The ironic thing, I find, about all of this is cutting wasn’t the first self-destructive thing I’ve done. And most may not believe this, but I am not on here to make anyone believe me, I am on here to get out everything I’ve kept inside for so meny years, ‘cos I can’t tell people that actully know me, it’s easier to tell the monitor.
Ever since I was 3 or 4 (yes I remember certain things from back then) whenever I would get mad, or in trouble and sent to my room, I would sit in front of the mirror and scratch my face till I bled. I would do the same to my arms and legs, then blame it on the dog, and say we were playing and he jumped up on me. I continued to do this till I was 6. Then I stopped for that one year, and found something more destructive and satisfying. The scary thing about all this is: I started self-destructive acts before I was molested, and before you’d be able to be an unhappy child (having lived a good few years) I don’t think I knew it was a bad thing to do, but it’s the fact that I did self-destructive things to cry the tears, that I couldn’t cry.
For those of you who don’t cut, or do self-destructive things, don’t do it. There’s other ways, there has to be. Your body will just turn into a tangled spiders web of scars and memories of things you wanted to forget, but are now engraved into your flesh. However much I think the fresh new cuts look beautiful, and I know I’m not alone on that, they don’t stay that way. They fade, the bright red color dims and what you’re left with is a hidious reminder of why you did it, or, for some, how stupid you were to to pick up that blade.
It’s now become an addiction, one I can’t break, and regret everyday of my life. For every good feeling that comes from each slice of the blade, the sight of the dark crimson stains, only comes guilt, for breaking a promise made to myself to stop, just another person who has failed me; myself, as well as the guilt from failing those very, very few people who know, and I’ve promised. If only I could cry.
On another thought, maybe subconsciously I don’t want to stop. Maybe this is that last thing I have to cling to, to keep me sane; the only thing in my life I can control, the motion of the blade, if not how often I do it. That being a question I have long pondered. And, am I completely deranged, having done this at age 3; supposed innocence?
Slide the blade along my wrist
Kill away the pain
Watch the blood trickle down
Laced with all that is insane.
Kiss the wound dripping with hate
Taste the life that has escaped
Forget the pain that have driven me mad
Forget the hate that I once had
Tears of black streak my cheek
Proving once again, I am weak
Look in the mirror
See what I’ve become
See the scars that have made me numb
I cut for a couple of years. From when I was 14 until almost 16 (yeah, it doesn’t sound like long, but it was to me). Anyway, I never thought I could quit. Even locked up in rehab I managed to find ways to cut myself. I got stitches twice during my time in rehab. I was really very determined. But you know what? I finally stopped. And if I can beat it, then anyone can. Sometimes I miss it, sometimes I test myself; to see if I can still do it. but so far I’ve stayed on the path that will keep me alive.