I started by helping others stop. I though it was a big deal. I can help a few people. But when I ask they how they felt when they said it, they told me it was like a high something you couldn’t resist. I was able to get many people to stop but soon after hearing all their stories I couldn’t help but wonder what high they were talking about. It started with just a little bit of it now and then but that high would get strong and strong until it was happening just about every time I could get time alone. It got so bad. Just one night I tried to commit suicide. It didn’t go too well. I was so attached to my boyfriend that when he went out with my best friend I just couldn’t take it. I ended up puking my guts up in the hotel bathroom and told my mom it was just food poisoning. Well, I realised that maybe a guy wasn’t worth it and I had tried over and over again to quit. I have been on medication for over three years now. I have tried many different ones. My dad screwed me over. I have separation anxiety I get so close to men or boys who love me, it feels as if my world is over. But anyways I was diagnosed with all different kind of stuff and I hated taking all the pills. They feel as if they work sometime and they don’t others. I am with the love of my life. He has helped me stop. After many trials and errors and several close calls I have been injury free for six months. My boyfriend and I have been together for ten. We have figured out that love can conquer all. To those like me who help everyone, this is a serious problem. Don’t take it into your hands like I did, because soon those stories you’re hearing will become yours.
So Here’s What Happened
My name is Amy. I am fourten years old. I have been cutting for almost a year now.
In 8th grade at least ten of my closest friends cut and I hated it and I wanted them to stop and I cried for them so much. My life was great compared to theirs and I had no reason at all to do anything to myself. Then one night I took a safety pin and I just started scratching at my ankle, but it wouldn’t bleed, so I found tiny nail scissors and cut at it until I saw a drop of blood. I was scared, but the feeling was elating. So The next day, I snuck a knife out of the kitchen and I used to to cut my thigh. I carved ‘DIE’ and ‘CROW’ (the nickname of my friend who I thought I loved). I wore long shorts to school the next day and I was scared and I showed people and within a week it was all around the school. This girl Amanda told my chorus teacher, on me and my other friend Karen. The chorus teacher told my guidance counsellor who called my mom. My parents were very upset and put me into therapy at some stupid-ass Christian therapy place. I mean, I’m a Christian and all, but that place was stupid. I hated the lady from the moment I saw her and so she basically said I didn’t need therapy after four one-hour sessions.
I didn’t cut for a while, but then I was going to California and so I packed my knife in my bag, but then I realised that it was going through security so I ran to the trash-can and threw it away. When I got back I brought a larger serrated knife to my room and cut again. Always on my thighs and it never ever bled very much. I also made two Xs on my ankle.
Then I went to the movies with my friend Sarah, my then-boyfriend Kenny, and my ex Jason. After the movie, it said on Kenny’s xanga, ‘Amy, I want to break up with you.’ So I asked why and he said, ‘You told Sarah that if I didn’t show up to the movie you would dump me and go out with Jason.’ Which I had said in jest. I was extrememly upset that he would even think I would cheat on him, so I took my knife and cut outright on my left arm. I wore a sweatshirt for two days in hundred-degree weather at a Girl Scout camp. Then I realised I had to tell my mom or I would die. So I did and I just told everyone that I had a vicious cat. My mom thinks that is when I stopped.
Then I found a large X-acto knife razor blade and with that blade, I slit my wrist for the first time. It was scary and exhilarating. And I thought I was going to pass out, even though it hardly bled at all.
I used that blade on my thighs and left wrist, shoulder, and arm until one day it got rusty and nasty from me using it in the shower. So I got a small X-acto knife razor blade and that’s what I have right now.
I was just doing my French homework about a week ago and all of the sudden I found myself with this need to cut so I did. And while I was watching the blood drip down my arm, I did my word-search.
Two days ago, I was in my shower and I just ripped up my arm, the worst I’ve ever done. And it wouldn’t stop bleeding and it scared the crap out of me. I soaked a whole wash-cloth with blood and it still wouldn’t stop. I’ve been hiding behind long sleeves since then, and I’m so scared of my parents finding out.
I tried to carve, ‘Worthless’ into my arm but I only got as far as the ‘W’ because there was no room on my arm.
At my high school, only my friends Tori, Jessi, Devon, Geri, Kristin, Andy, Jackie, and my boyfriend Gustavo know about my cutting, but I’m scared it’s going to turn into this thing were everyone knows I’m a ‘cutter’.
I already get called ‘emo’ and ‘scene’ because of my new haircut.
I’m scared. What if I get into a play and the costume shows my arms? What if I cut too deep and I pass out in my bathroom? What if everyone hates me because I’m a cutter?
Whenever I see ‘SI’ written anywhere I think, ‘Self Injury’. I see sharp objects and I start to want them. I think I might take my blade to school someday and skip lunch and just cut. I’m scaring myself so much.
But the scariest thing is I don’t have a reason to cut and I never did and I see the people on here and their stories are so horrific and in the pictures. Their cuts are so terrible. I feel like a worthless poser.
I don’t even know why I cut anymore. Maybe it’s to remind myself that I’m alive.
I’m Amy and I’m thirteen years old. I would like to tell you my story.
It all started when I was about four years old. My dad had always resented me, he wanted a girl and a boy. When I came that meant he had two girls. One night I had a bad nightmare and I went into my parent’s room saying I couldn’t sleep. My dad voluntarily got up and said to my mom that he was taking me for a little walk, because the night air had always soothed me. So off we went, he took me round to the park around the corner and rather than stopping at the swings where we usually sat he carried on to the wooded area. Then he sat me down at the bottom of a tree and explained that what he was going to do was normal, that every daddy did this to their little girls. So he lifted my little nightie up and raped me. It was agony, but I couldn’t tell anyone. All the way back home I started to bite my own arm. This became more regular, and more painful, I have already had three miscarriages because of his beatings, I have burns and scars from him. I wasn’t allowed a boyfriend because I had to be his… just his. He died when I was around ten. Now, because I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone or make friends, I don’t know how to make friends, or have a normal conversation. I am now teased and hated at school as I am mildly schizophrenic and severely paranoid. I bite myself and scratch until I bleed and even just pierce myself with my nails. I don’t know how to cope, I just want to die.
Almost six months ago my brother died. He was my best friend and I never thought I’d lose him. He was only twenty years old. He was the only one who I felt like really cared. He yelled a lot but it was only to tell me that he didn’t want me ending up like him. There was nothing wrong with him or the way he was. He was a good person, was on the rescue squad and fire department. He helped save lives. He was great, everyone loved him. Ever since he died, I decided to start cutting. I’ve seen psychiatrists but they don’t help. They make me worse, they don’t understand I just want to die. I try my best to keep myself exiled from the world because I just seem to hate people, period.
The cuts on my arm are a symbol of what I am and who I am. They’re beginning to fade and the pain is too. I need to make them wider and deeper just to represent me and who I am. You’ll never completely understand why I do this and I’m not doing it to hurt anyone, only me. And hopefully no one will know even though the scars are beginning to fade. I wish I could still feel that pain but it seems that every time I try to make another cut the knife gets dull and won’t make me bleed. But I want to see the blood, it proves to me that I do feel pain. Just like you (my brother).
My name’s Amy. I still am a cutter and I probably will be for a long time yet. This is my story so far.
About three years ago my best friend died. I then started to cut with a little razor my mom had in her room for shaving. I yanked that and cut day in and day out. One day I cut a bit too deep to soak up with a cloth, so I ended up in the ER and then into a mental health place. Well, I lied my way out of that and came back home. So then I started to cut again, but on my leg this time, so no one would really see it. And I ended up back in the ER and back in the institution. I lied again and got out.
So I’ve been doing this again for the past three years and I’m thinking of ending it all. I know what people are going through and I know how you all feel. I know it’s not right, but it’s my way of getting rid of all that is evil in my life and my friend’s lives.
Heres my final poem to my friends. I do love you all but this is something I have to do for me.
Fucking hate and fucking pain
I don’t think I can ever be sane
I hate this feeling I hate this pain
I have to cry out in the rain
I have to cut myself 5 times at school
About 20 at home man I’m such a fool
I cut myself I go to the hospital
They say my blood is getting brittle
I have many stitches I have many scars
Sometimes it hurts I want to jump in front of cars
But this blade is my friend
This blade is my love
This blade is my hope and everything to me
This journey will end
This pain will pass
For tomorrow ill be in the grass
That’s my story, thats my poem, this is how I feel, and now I am done.
Hi, my name is Amy. I’m 15. I started cutting in September 2003. I started cutting with a sharp nail file (strange, but effective) and then I moved to what I use now, a swiss army knife. I don’t know what the devil razor blades look like or are! When people say razor blade do they mean, like, the razors you (normally) use to shave your legs (or face)? I know it’s a stupid question… I just wonder… Anyway, I promised my boyfriend last September that I would stop cutting. But I didn’t, I couldn’t stop. Cutting has become something that I need to do, like the book Crosses (I love that book), where if I don’t do it, I just explode and I can’t take it.
I can’t handle my own feelings and the pain I feel when I cut is nothing compared to the pain I feel inside.
I wish I had someone to talk to, though. It’s really sad that none of my close friends understand — not my boyfriend, my best friend of 10 years, my other best friend… no one gets it. All three of those people I just named said “stop it, you have no reason. your feelings aren’t valid, they’ll go away.” No, they haven’t gone away and yes, they are valid. I couldn’t believe the way they reacted.
I feel so alone and no one gets it. But this site is simply awesome.
If you want to talk or anything just email me.
I first started to cut, actually over 2 years ago. It feels so much longer. Hurting myself has just been so deeply integrated into who I am that it’s hard to imagine a time or place when the desire isn’t there. The first time I cut, it was accidental — I had a pocketknife and cut my finger, but I was immediately engrossed in the blood that I was able to squeeze out. I then cut the tip of my finger with the same pocketknife a few other times, once at my own house, and once at a birthday party sleepover at my friend’s house. I had gotten the idea, I believe, from my little brother’s friend. That was all at the end of seventh grade, and it was very minor. My parents did end up finding out about it, but nothing was done.
The first serious incident of cutting was a few days after Christmas, in eighth grade. I had gotten a beautiful Arabic dagger for Christmas, and I was home alone with my brother one night. I can’t remember exactly what made me do it, but I started cutting my wrists and legs. Not very deep, but I had cut many times. I remember I carved the initials of my boyfriend, or at that time he was actually my ex-boyfriend, into my left leg. I showed my brother this, and he was rather upset, but he didn’t do anything about it. A few days before that, I had cut my hand a few times with the same dagger. The next day, I cut a few deeper slices in my calves, and still, no one noticed, for which I was very grateful. That Sunday night, I think, I used my pocketknife to cut the inside of both my elbows, where they draw blood from, and you can see the vain pop up.
Monday rolled around, and I was rather upset. I can’t remember exactly what upset me, but I actually think I remember something happening with Andrew, a rather distant friend of mine. I’m not sure, though. But I cut class and went into the girl’s room, and cut a deep gash in both my forearms with the pocketknife my father had given me (I had the habit of carrying it around wherever I went). That was, at that point, the deepest I had ever cut, and I was, oddly enough, not scared, but very reassured, and I was happy that they kept bleeding. I went to math class, and my ex noticed the cuts, and was very concerned, but didn’t say anything. That lunch, I went to sit with my friends, and I might have gotten away with cutting that time, were it not for the fact that the cuts were still bleeding badly, and while I was resting my arm on the table, I didn’t notice that a pool of blood had gathered underneath. I went to go get towels to clean it up, but by the time I came back, the nurse was there, and she escorted me down to her office, where I was looked at, and it was decided that I should go to an emergency room. After a long wait there, they decided not to give me stitches, even though I should have gotten them, my doctor says, and I went back home, forced to go to more intensive therapy. I was able to stop cutting for a long time — from that January to this fall, 11 long months. Except for one time that spring, where I do remember cutting my thighs, and my stomach, as well as burning myself.
But during this November, my freshman year, I started cutting again. I had had my pocketknife and dagger taken away from me, but I got an exacto knife from my dad’s work place and cut my shin and stomach. I quickly fell into a habit once again, and every day I started and ended with cutting, always on my shins. Usually I used shaving razors or an exacto knife, and the cuts were not all that deep, but sometimes I used my father’s kitchen knife, which is very sharp, and I cut myself pretty deeply with that. I can’t remember when they found out I was cutting exactly, but I do remember it was because a girl at the winter dance saw me cutting myself in the girl’s bathroom. That was unfortunate, and I was put under somewhat heavier restriction, but nothing else basically happened until I got razor blades, which I think was in February. I cut my arm once with them, but that was it. I overdosed late February, and had to go to the ER (it was just 6 frigging Ibuprofen!) and a few weeks later stuck a safety pin in my wrist. Either that, or it was the other way around. I can’t remember which happened first. But I was put in a partial hospitalisation program, which completely sucked. I was in the program for five days, going there instead of school. And about another month passed I believe, and it came to be mid-April. I was feeling pretty upset about one of my friends, who was in a crappy mood, and I took one of my barely-used razors and cut my thigh. I didn’t realise how sharp the razors were… the cut went deep, to the fat layer. It started bleeding, and I was up pretty much that whole night trying to get it to stop bleeding, and trying to clean up the evidence of it. The next day was hell. I wore black pants, but there was still a pretty obvious stain on them - even though I kept putting on new band-aids, the blood kept soaking through them, and if I rested my hand on my pants, it would come away soaked with blood. I went home, and my two best friends tried to help me cover while I changed pants. I bled through 5 pairs pf pants that day…oh well. That night, my dad saw blood in the bathroom and asked me if I had cut. I said no, but he asked to check, and he saw blood all down my leg, and the make-shift tourniquet I had wrapped around the cut. He took me to the ER, and after waiting a long time, till 1 in the morning, the doctor came and stitched the cut up (21 sutures). I waited again, and a nurse came and gave me a psych eval. They decided I needed hospitalisation, and I went to Amesbury hospital. It was pretty horrible there, but after a week that felt like a year, I was let out, and I haven’t cut since. That was late April, it’s the middle of June now.
The desire to harm myself is still very strong in me. Although I have been hurting myself by picking at my fingernails, fingers and face, and throwing up stuff that I eat (I’ve stopped that), it’s not the same as cutting. To be honest, I don’t know how I’ve been able to stop for so long. I guess just the fear of going back to the hospital. I cannot wait until I am in college… sweet relief. I cannot say exactly why I want to harm myself so much, it’s just become a way of life and a coping skill. At first it was partially, or maybe even completely, for attention, but that’s changed completely. Seeing the blood and the scars proves that my suffering is real, and it gives me something physical to distract me from my emotional pain, I think. I love seeing the blood. I know it probably sounds crazy, but it really isn’t, it’s just the same as anyone who smokes, or does drugs, or things like that. It’s something to help you escape your problems — it’s not healthy, but it does work. And I miss it like hell.
I can remember the first time I cut. It was to see how hard it would be to slice my wrists. It then moved on to experiments with different blades. Finally I took the chance and tried to kill my self (Feb 1997). The cut was deep and needed stitches. It was an odd sensation. I suddenly felt better. This rush actually saved me. I didn’t finish the suicide. I tried 2 more times within a month. Each of these times getting deeper and more dangerous. Again, I would feel better almost immediately. I found that it was like a drug. I hated having to spend the night in the hospital every time I went in for stitches. So I started cutting less deep. I found that I could cut and get the same rush without the stitches.
I cut when I can’t stand the pain anymore. Sometimes I get such an overwhelming wave of emotional pain that I feel like my soul will surely shatter completely. I can feel the pressure building up till I have to do something. Suicide has proved a failure for me, so I resort to cutting; cutting gives me immediate release. And the pain will subside for a while, giving me enough of a break to pull my shit together temporarily. Stress and rejection, and abandonment (of course) are the main triggers. It sounds stupid, I know. But even a baby crying at the supermarket is enough to set me off. I look at my scars. And I look at my cuts. Did I do this?
How can someone do this? I have the same doubts that “normal” people do about cutting. It is scary. But when I am in the moment. It is the only thing I can think of.