Copyright, Angela L
Growing up I came to the conclusion that I had nothing to live for. Teased and pushed around every day even by my own family, constantly called fat, ugly and stupid. I thought that after seven years of the bullying maybe people would grow up. I never had a true friend to call my own in grade school. I was always alone and even my family never understood the pain I was feeling since grade 2. I’m in grade 11 now and even thought I have a few good friends, I’m always feeling depressed and lost. I began cutting in grade 10, after the bullying began again, even though I changed high school and had a fresh new start. The people were new to me, but they never changed, they never grew out of treating me like I was a dog. I still don’t understand why I have it so bad. I’m nice to everyone. Maybe it’s because I’m such an outgoing person that they tear me down, maybe it’s because of the way I look. I don’t think I will ever know why I was the centre of everyone’s hate. I guess it will always be a mystery to me. The scars on my wrist are constant reminders of the past that I don’t want to remember. The first time I ever cut was because a friend of mine was a cutter. I flipped out on her and asked her why she would do such a mundane thing. She told me it relieved the pressure of the world that she holds on her shoulders. I thought about it long and hard that night. Me and my Dad just had another fight and finally I realised that I couldn’t take it any more. I couldn’t stand being treated so badly by everyone around me, so I found a pair of scissors, and at first I just put a little pressure in fear of actually killing myself. I fear death, I know it might sound crazy, coming from a cutter such as myself, but I am terrified of the after-life. I remember when I was thirteen I prayed to God that I didn’t fear death, because I wanted so badly to swallow down the entire bottle of Advil. Instead I chickened out and only took ten or twelve.
After the small gash with the scissors I realised that my friend was right, it does help. So I cut again, this time a little deeper, just enough to see blood, and then I lay back, and it felt like the weight of the world was just relieved from my shoulders. A few weeks later, I got beat up at school by this neanderthal of a girl. That night I decided to get a little riskier and use a razor. It felt so good, just watching the little beads of blood rise made me happy, and for the first time in my life I realised that this is the beginning of a new life. A life that involves sharp objects and physical pain, which is much better than the emotional pain.
I’m sixteen now and there aren’t many fresh wounds on my body, it’s been six months and I’ve been cut free. The reason I stopped is because after about a year(since I began cutting) my life seemed to have gotten better, but the main reason that I stopped was because I lost a lot of respect from friends and I’ve made pacts with some that if I cut they cut, and most of them are recovering from their ordeal with blades. Sometimes when I’m all alone I look at my scars and I think of all the horrible things that caused them, but I will never regret having made them, because without them I feel, like my life would still be unbearable.
Copyright, Angela L
the thirst for hope has taken it’s tole
the thirst that strives inside my soul
my soul that dies with every breath
now I fear I have nothing left
the breath I took to give me life
the life I lost with this sharp knife
the knife that cut deep in my skin
my skin that lost the blood within
my blood that dripped onto the floor
the floor were I lay as nothing more
than a thirsty, broken child