I’m 26, I’ve self-harmed lightly for ten years. That’s up till a year ago. I sliced my arm had to get 20 stitches. Nobody talked about it in hospital. Was stitched up and sent home. My parents ignored the situation, that’s OK, their choice. Since then I cut daily. The thing is I don’t know why, it doesn’t hurt. I have no feelings about it at all. In truth I have no feelings about anything anymore. What’s the point? After all our time here is just that time. What does it matter what we do, who we are, ultimately it doesn’t. I’ve always known that for as long as I can remember. I used to tell myself I’d find my life in time. I may be having a crap time now but it can only get better can’t it?
I am 13 and can’t remember when I first started cutting, it has to be over a year ago now. I became depressed in year 6 when I had no friends.
I was lying on my bed on a low after crying and I saw my razor lying on my desk. I had read about cutting in lots of magazines. They seemed to be springing up everywhere and unhappy people did it. I was unhappy. it took me an hour of thinking before I had the courage to reach for it. It was hard to make myself bleed. I was resisting from pressing hard enough. When I finally did I felt relief, I had anger and it was seeping away every time I stroked my arm with the blade, I kept doing it until my arm was half covered with blood and the pain became too intense.
I am only a young teenager with so many I cannot control. I cut my body to feel alive. I need to feel the pain and see the blood to feel real. My life is fucking screwed. I have no where to turn. My life is totally messed up. So i do what what I do best: Cut my self deep and see my blood and feel the wonderful pain. Without self injury I’d be dead by now. Since I was 10 I have been wanting to die. I cannot stand my life and the only way to cope with the depression is to cut. It’s my life. cutting. It makes me feel alive and it relieves my stress. Everyone says I’ll be OK but they don’t know how I feel. They don’t understand me. People in school think I’m crazy and all my friends try to help but I think no one can help me now. I’d die if I couldn’t cut and see the blood and feel the pain. Cutting. It’s my life.
August 11th. The worst day of my life along with the next 7 months to follow being the hardest (trust me, I’ll explain). Anyways on that day I lost my girlfriend, and was kicked out of the second best (hardest) school in the Navy. So I went to the store and got 150 pills (3 bottles) of Tylenol PM. Came back to my barracks, went into the bathroom, and downed them really quick. I went into my room and that really nasty buzz hit me and I was actually happy that I was gonna die. I was actually at peace with it. I went unconscious at about 12:00 p.m. My roommates didn’t get back until about 11:45 p.m. They found me facedown in black-blood vomit.
I’d once watched a documentary on Self Harm with my Mother, and although it was interesting, I don’t think I really understood why the people on it were intentionally cutting themselves. The programme followed the lives of about 4 self-harmers who talked about their feelings, their actions, and what provoked them to start in the first place. Mum and I watched it until the end. It was shocking.
The next time I heard about SI was a teenage magazine. A girl had turned to cutting her arm to deal with the pain she felt at breaking up with her boyfriend. She had eventually become addicted to cutting and used it to deal with her emotions from that day. She would not accept the help she was offered to stop.
I didn’t question what these people did, but accepted it. It was something that effected other people — not me. I never thought 6 months after reading the magazine, I too would be cutting.
As a child I was often ignored by classmates while the teachers were yawning about me being dumb. I can’t remember a time where I was appreciated by anyone, not really. I didn’t have friends and I tried everything to be accepted. Then, the director of the school picked me out of the crowd and systematically started to he bully me. He made a fool of me in front of the others or called me names and yelled at me.
I felt like being nothing, worse than a bunch of shit and after I got wounded by accident, I started to scratch myself. My parents or the doctors didn’t understand why the wound didn’t heal but I did; I scratched until the wound started bleeding again — despite the pain — and as soon as I saw blood I calmed down. At the time I was just seven years.