I used to cut myself, yeah… And I’m not proud of it. I hung around with a very depressed group that influenced me to cut, that was stupid I know. But then I met a girl who cut herself, the more she cut herself the more I cut myself. Well I just want to tell you guys, there is a sun over the mountains, just get over the pain and sorrow and see a brighter day. I do, I’m following my dreams and when I reach those beatiful clouds of my dreams, you will all know the one called “DD”.
I have been cutting for three and a half years and I am fifteen. My parents didn’t even know about it until about nine or ten months ago. The actual first time I did it was in 5th grade but it was a one time thing and I didn’t do it again until 7th grade. When I was younger (seven to twelve) my step grandpa molested me. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone and him and my grandma had recently adopted a little girl and I didn’t want to make her life bad like mine. Eventually, I told and it stopped. He’s getting out in a month or two so maybe he will end this for me. I go through a lot of stages in my cutting. I’ve burned with lighters, chemicals, stoves, safety pins, light bulbs, I’ve cut with safety pins plastic razors, knifes, glass, a peice of metal in a mental hospital bathroom from the shower.
I cannot speak on behalf of anyone else, I can only tell of what I know. I know that if I hadn’t started to cut myself, I would probably be dead by now, or at least have tried. It’s that simple. I am, I suppose, what is called a delicate cutter. I never cut deep enough to need medical attention or scar a lot. It has more to do with the feeling connected to it. Or lack thereof. I tend to shut things down when I don’t like what I feel. It gets to a point where everything is tumbling under the surface and I can’t take it any longer. Pain gives me something to focus on, lets me ride out the bad stuff I feel. I don’t know much about emotion. I shut them down if I don’t like them. Sometimes I shut them down even if I do. I figure that if I keep them, I’ll get to like them, then it’ll hurt more when they go. So I don’t allow myself to feel much of anything.
I’m Danielle. I’m 14, and living in Annapolis, Maryland. I have been diagnosed with MPD (multiple personality disorder), Bipolar Disorder, and I am blessed with constant suicidal thoughts, as well as the need to bring harm to myself.
My childhood was that of a typical American family that wanted a daughter but chose to adopt. That American family happened to be my blood grandparents. As an infant, my birth parents gave me up for adoption, truthfully, because I was a mistake. My birthfather’s parents adopted me. My adopted father has always been an alcoholic, and always physically, verbally, emotionally, and sexually abusive. My adopted mother is literally his slave. I’m a prisoner in my own friggin’ life.
Let me tell you a little story about a little girl who didn’t have a family.
There once was a little girl who lived in a big house in a rich suburb. Her mommy was a student in an ivy league school and her daddy was a successful buisseness man.
One night when she was still too small to remember, her daddy opened the door to her bedroom in the middle of the night and stroked her hair. He took that little girl’s innocence away that night, and he did it again and again every night for a very long time. This little girl thought that maybe this wasn’t right so she told her mommy, and her mommy took her to a therapist.
It seems like pain is all I’ve ever known in this life. But I know that’s not really true. I know that I was once happy even if it was for only a short amount of time. So yes, I was once happy…
All this cutting started a couple years after my depresstion started. I first remember wanting to die when I was seven years old. I remeber feeling so much hate. Then when I was eleven I cut for the first time. I am fourteen years old now and I’m still cutting. As a matter of fact I have 46 cuts on my arms right now. I don’t really want to stop cutting either. It really does help me.