I started cutting when I was fourteen years old, I’m fifteen now. The first time I did it was because of my mom. I live with my granny, my aunt, and her three kids (four year old twins and a twelve year old). My mom comes over sometimes when the place she is staying at at the time doesn’t want her for a while. Well I live in a three bedroom house, and she tries to sleep with me, and tries to be a mother to me when I tell her she can’t, she hasn’t been around to be a mother now. Well me and her had a big argument, and she walked out, and on her way out she called me names that really hurt, it made me so mad at the fact that I couldn’t hit her I don’t know why but when I get mad I need to cause pain to someone (no I’m not crazy I don’t think) I then had an idea to do it to myself. I grabbed a razor that carpenters use for carpets (it was left over here from when my house was built) I grabbed a rag and wet it, ran to my room and sat down just crying with the razor in my hand. I started to slowly run the blade across my arm, I just started to breathe real hard and laugh, at first I thought I was going crazy, but then realised that it was just pain that I couldn’t feel anywhere else until I let it loose with the razor. I did only four more cuts after that I then laid the rag across my arm and fell asleep. Cutting is a big adrenaline rush that I don’t think anyone can experience from drugs. When I went to school I made little arm cuffs to go over my cuts so no one would notice, some of my friends even asked if I could make them ones. One time I accidentally cut too deep and I was in school wearing my arm cuff and right in the middle of class it started bleeding and I couldn’t get it to stop, but eventually with all the papertowels in the girls bathroom it stopped. I still cut I only used to do it when I was upset or mad about something but when I turned fifteen for some reason I’m like addicted I have cuts on my arms and legs. All together I have sixty-eight cuts but by the time I graduate high school I don’t know where I’m going to do it next I’m running out of room.
I hide the razors in my little box with the rags soaked with blood. The cuts I make makes me laugh, makes me smile. The thought of all the pain I was going through before I cut is in the past when I stare at my scars it gives me the urge, the urge to cut more cut deeper, just to feel that great feeling of relief people say I’m crazy or I’m just doing it for attention, what they don’t know is that they are the reason I do it, the pain or feeling for some reason I can’t feel is brought out by blood just pouring out my wounds like a confession of lies you just had to tell the truth, no mom I dont like your girlfriend and yes I do hate the fact you call me ugly you ask me why I do it, well ask yourself.