Art, Release, Pleasure
I have been self injuring since November 2001. There are so many reasons why I self injure, and so many ways. I don’t remember why it started but I remember the first time I did it. I was with my friend Alice and she showed me some scratches on her arm, and when I asked her what they were and how they got there, she said she had done it with scissors and just wanted to see if she could do it. So, I figured if she could do it, so could I. I did not really search for anything to cut with but one day I was looking through the hallway closet and I ran across a little pack of razor blades. I did it a few times, just to see if I could do it, then I noticed I loved the way it felt. I hadn’t meant to get addicted or keep doing it, but that was how it turned out. I was having trouble with everything, being 13 and in 8th grade can be pretty hard, I had gone from being a straight A student to not caring, and things were especially shaky since I had gotten released from the psychiatric ward about a month earlier. I had been put there because I had OD’ed and had to get my stomach pumped, and my mom had made me stay until the doctors said I seemed stable. My boyfriend breaking up with me had triggered me to attempt suicide, and when I got out we got back together. I continued to have problems with him, and I started cutting whenever I felt let down. Pretty soon, a few people I knew came up and they showed me some cuts they had done, and right then I knew it was my fault they had done it, which triggered me to do it more. Up until May 2002, I cut just about either every day, or a few times a week, and if I didn’t do it every day I would do it a lot when I finally did. I did it for a few reasons, one was to get away, another was that the look of the blood calmed me down, the depth of the cuts made me feel like if I couldn’t control anything else, I could control how deep my cuts were. Also, it kept people away, because I was the only person in 8th grade who had severe clinical depression, and no one bothered to even try and understand me. Some people thought I was the way I was to get attention or to get people to feel sorry for me. I had no reason to make anyone feel sorry for me, I felt sorry enough for myself. I stopped over the summer, but once highschool started everything changed. The first two weeks I met a guy and we started dating, I broke up with him, and then he came to school with his hand all cut up. I knew once again someone had done it because of me, so I cut my arm up worse than ever before. Now it’s November 2002 I don’t plan to stop or let up. Now, I’ve been re-evaluated and I’m officially bipolar. I guess that’s why I cut more, because I cut to control my moods, when I’m too happy I do it to calm down, and when I’m too down, I do it to feel alive. I cut every two weeks, and when I do cut, I see how far I can go before I can’t take it anymore, or until I’m satisfied. But now it seems I cannot even control the depth of my cuts because they aren’t as deep as I would like them to be. I also picked up what I call penciling, where its like an eraser burn, except done with a pencil. I only do this to remind of stuff that brings me down, or makes me smile, two extremes and none of it is for fun. I’m with a guy that makes me happier than I’ve ever been, but when he’s not there, I don’t really see the point of anything. Now, I do it to get away, because I think it’s pretty and my right arm has kind of become my easel, I do it to feel in control, and for fun. But I can’t stop, and I don’t plan to. Nothing has helped, and finally my parents have realized I am not going to stop and that it was just a part of me. When I get really down, I don’t eat for days, and that really is the only time I try to kill myself, except when I OD. I never cut with the intent to kill myself, but ODing and starving is another story. I know if I want to stop I probably could, I just would not be too happy about it. I’ve also noticed I get this really strange happy feeling, almost sexual I know that sounds kind of odd, but the pain makes everything OK, and it feels so good. Cutting has turned out to be more than just a release. Release, hobby, habbit, pleasure, fun, my life, everything. I also pull out hair or hit things, or bruise myself, and bite myself, but my drug of choice, as I would say, because like I said I’m addicted, is cutting. I only cut with razor blades, and if I don’t have any, I go out and buy them. I remember only a few times where I had no control over what I was doing and I had not intended to cut, but I was so angry I had to do it. Since there weren’t any razor blades, I just got a dull box cutter and decided it would do for then. I seldom cut right after something upsets me, but I do if it’s too extreme for me to handle. I usually plan it out and then after I start out I just go with it until I’m happy with what I have done. It usually is not a spur of the moment thing, but rather a planned event. I know there’s help if I ever need it, but I don’t like to accept help, so for now, I just hope I don’t go too far.