I started cutting at the age of thirteen. It began when I continuously kept getting my heart broken by the same guy. Then I would cut because I got yelled at, was depressed, or did something wrong. It began on my upper arm, then it moved to my forearm, then to my legs, and finally to my stomach. My mom said I did it for the attention, but why then would I try to hide it? It got so severe that even when nothing was wrong and I wanted to cut I’d bring things up from my past such as me being raped, and beaten as an excuse to cut. One night I cut so severely that I passed out and and my mom found me laying on my bedroom floor. She told my worker (I’m in foster care) and he said that if I cut again then I’d get sent off to get help. Although if you’d look at me you’d never think I am a cutter. I am a cheerleader, an honour student, and so forth, yet I’m not happy. I am severely depressed, and I keep getting told to pray about it. However it seems like even God’s given up on me, so yeah. My parents think I’ve quit, but only my boyfriend and sister know different. They’re the closest thing to a family I have. I don’t know if I’ll ever quit, but maybe someday I will.
Hold On, if it Feels Like Letting Go
I know that you all suffer very much, but I know there’s always another way than cutting and other self-injury.
You just have to hold on, it takes a while, and everything feels awful, but if you just hold on, everything will be fine, I know. I’ve been in the same situation as you, it was awful. It’s awful to even think that sometimes pain gave me pleasure.
But hurting yourselves is not the right way. You just have to believe and work for the happiness. It’s hard, it feels impossible but there’s always a chance. You just have to believe in yourselves, that’s the start for a new life. Better life. And if you have someone to talk or someone who loves you or cares for you in any way you should tell him or her about what you do and feel, they will help you. Let’s take Chester Bennington for example. His own father used him, raped him. He had this addiction for drugs and stuff and he was nearly dead. And look at him now, he has a great family, he has a great band (Linkin Park), he’s rich and famous and happy. He tried, even if everything was lost. But he wanted to live because of Samantha, his great love. And everyone has their own beloved. Whoever he or she is, you should hold on at least for him or her. And listen to Good Charlotte’s Hold On, and go to see the music video. I hope you read this and I hope this makes you think even a little. Contact me if you like.
The Hurt in Me
I’ve been cutting for 3 years now, been to 3 institutions, none help. No one knows what I feel. They all try to tell me what to think or they try to put their thoughts in my head. I go around each day I feel the pain I fake everything. I do the smile the touch the emotions. It’s all fake. I feel like I can’t feel anymore. At least doing this I might feel something. I think each time I cut deeper like tonight it wouldn’t stop or me fainting for it wouldn’t. I feel like there is more to life than this but I haven’t found it and never will. I get let down more and more each day. I don’t know why I do this. I wanna know. I want my head to stop hurting with all the thoughts and anger and pain. I want to bleed till I can’t bleed anymore I want someone to understand and feel where I’m coming from. I want to stop being fake and stop watching them heal. I just wish they would never heal because as soon as they do I cut again. If you feel this way please help me. I need someone to understand my thoughts without me trying to go deeper than this.
This is probably the best site I have ever seen. I recently got caught cutting by my math teacher. I have to go see a psychotherapist every two weeks and am no longer allowed to cut. I slip sometimes and make little ones on my arms where my millions of bracelets hide them. This is the second time I started cutting in my life. The first time was when I was thirteen. I was cutting with safety pins and trying to overdose on Ibuprofen. My cuts were never deep enough to bleed much and the Ibuprofen just made me throw up for a day or two. The second time around the cuts were deeper and I was using razor blades. They were deep enough at times to bleed for hours. My friends and I were cutting each other. Sort of a memento. I started popping any pills I could get hold of. Without checking to see what they were or what they did. At times I took so many I lost count. I still have four pill bottles full of pills I have collected from my friends. I don’t pop pills anymore but only because the ones I have stopped affecting me. I have antidepressants that I don’t take. Sometimes I miss it. The control over my life that it gave me. To me it seems like such a beautiful thing. I wish everyone would stop interfering with my life and let me deal with it on my own. I was doing just fine. Even though my arms are covered with nothing but scars.
Well this is my story. I started to self harm when I was 5. It was a little like using cans to get little cuts. Rubber bands to cut off circulation. Then as I got older I used knives, glass, needles, razor blades, anything and everything. I was hospitalised at the age of 17 for depression and cutting. My mom thought just because she sticks me in a hospital I’ll be better. But she figured out not so. I basically don’t want to stop. I don’t care what people think. I know I am not alone. My mom calls me a freak and abnormal. Well recently I was given an ultimatum. I quit or go back to a hospital till I get better. You will wonder why now all of a sudden well as I write to you guys I have 15 stitches in my left thigh. 3 1/2 inches long and 2 inches wide or so. Not exact, but it was with glass. I never meant for it to go this deep, but I lost complete control of what I thought I knew how to control. I know now I will not be able to stop but hope when I strike again I will be out of my mom’s house so she won’t know. I’m 19 now, going to college; and still hiding what I do.
I only did it because I was bored.I was tired, and lonely, and bored. So I did it. Not a lot. Not too many, just one scratch, on the right corner of my wrist, only about 1 cm long. There wasn’t too much blood.
I have this thing with blood, I don’t like it, makes me woozy, like I’m stoned, so there’s never too much blood. The next day shit got worse, but I couldn’t forget of that small cut, on my wrist. Nobody asked about it, nobody said anything, they just assumed it was an accident, or maybe they didn’t see it, whatever, doesn’t matter.
The thing was, I got away with it.
Nobody called me on it, asked if I was OK, nobody did. So I got away, and if you don’t know, cutting is like a potato chip for many, for me it’s like cucumber, you can’t just eat one. You can’t just cut once. Mostly because you know that it made you feel better, what person on this earth would do something that makes them feel better, then never do it again? So I did it again. Took the nail file, and slid it down my forearm, using no force at all. A small scratch appeared. It looked like a kitten just got pissed at me, no big, I had four cats.
This time, something told me to hide it. Something inside of me told me it wasn’t right for people to see this. Looking back I realise it’s because whenever people see my scratches, I’m being called on it. I’m getting caught, I’m showing my weaknesses, showing I’m human. Yeah, I know I’m human, but I’m one of those people who doesn’t want others to know that, sometimes my body is cold, sometimes I sneeze, I get sick, I have pants that don’t fit right.
I want everyone to think I’m perfect.
I know I’m not, and I’m pretty sure everyone knows I’m not too. But let me keep fooling myself and I’ll be alright. It’s been over 2 years now. I have a favourite sweater, my grey one. I wear it almost everyday, I broke the zipper by now. Only small cuts, not too deep, I know what happens when you cut too deep, ask Heather, or Meraydeth. How many times have we rode our bikes to High Bridge, or P-burg, or hitchhiked, after frantic calls saying mostly the same things, “I cut too much, too deep, so much blood”. So we rush out to take care of each other, because we got each other into it. We gotta be there to help each other out.
People ask me why I do it. Am I sad? Depressed? Upset? Yeah, I am, all of the above. Does it help release the tension? Yeah, it does. Is that why you do it? No. It’s not. I don’t do it ‘cause I get pissed, or sad, I do it because I can. When I have that knife, or blade, or mail opener, I’m in control. I’m taking my life, my blood into my hands. It’s up to me. How hard I press, where I cut, how long it is. It’s all up to me. I like it that way. People beg me to stop. Tell me it’s bad, wrong.
Uh… hello? Look at society, tell me that one girl who cuts matters compared to the Sniper, Drug Smuggling, Killers. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Stop. Stop telling me to stop, because I’m never gonna. My life is gonna stay in my hands, that’s where it belongs. I have only 3 scars. It’s so weird, after all these years you’d think I’d have more. People say those 3 scars are ugly. They say, that they mar my “pale peach skin”. People say that my scars are too big.
I think the birthmark on my back, right underneath my left shoulder blade is too big. I think my ass is too big. Are my scars too big? No. To me, my scars aren’t big enough. It’s funny, sometimes, when I’m daydreaming in school, or sitting up in the abandoned chicken coop in the back of my house, thinking about my future, my newest infatuation, or just out of it. I feel stinging, stinging on my “cut spots”. Like a lost limb, I can feel the pain.
Thats what my cuts are to me, not ugly, or too big, or frustration releases, they’re a part of me, like a limb. A limb long past forgotten, hidden away, under baggy sweatshirts, and winter coats. Sometimes, I’ll show you my scars. It’s like an initiation, you see my scars and you know I love you, and trust you enough.
What would I do if I didn’t have them?
People always ask me that, what would you do, if those scars didn’t exist. I never answer them, but in my head I know the answer. If my scars weren’t there, I wouldn’t be either. I could have never survived, without all these “Lost Limbs”.
What a Difference 2 Years Make…
I used to be a little girl, tiny. Thin hair, green eyes, ripped jeans, and knobby knees. Other girls played with barbies, I made mud pies, and forced my cousins to eat them. In Kindergarten we played “Boys Chase Girls”, I was always on the boys team. I used to be a little girl.
At age 10 I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I was a little sister. Then I wasn’t. My best friend from forever left me. She left me and I was so much older. A little 10 year old who wore make-up, had breasts, and smoked. I already rimmed my eyes with dark eyeliner, and mascara. I don’t remember having any best friends when I was little, not in my grade, cause I always had Becca. I used to be someones little sister.
I used to be a victim. At age 11 my virginity was stolen from someone I trusted. I used to be a victim.
When I was twelve, I found out I was something else. I was a cutter. I did what did for many years before a friend confessed the same thing, and I found a name to what I do. Cutting. I used to be a cutter.
I’m 13 now. I’m not a little girl. I don’t play with the boys anymore, I prefer showers over dirt. I’m not a little sister anymore, I’m a big sister. I’m not a victim anymore, mostly ‘cause I refuse to be. I used to be all these things, and now, I’m not one of them. I realise something else, I used to be alive. But now, I’m not.