I’ve been SI’ing for about five years now.
When I first started I was hitting myself and punching myself, eventually it went to cutting. I’ve been cut free for about six months. I had stopped about two years ago and started up again six months later. Everyone was so happy that I wasn’t cutting myself anymore. When they started seeing cuts on my arms again they were very concerned. I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me so I would tell them my cat caused my cuts. I have a cat who bites and scratches very deep so my story was believable.
I am fourteen and have been cutting since I was twelve. I have only voluntarily told two people about my cutting, but they don’t know the full story, I want to tell them, but I don’t know how do go about it.
I was felt up a few times by a so-called ‘respected’ person in my life. This has happened continuously since I was around twelve, too. But, I think the person realised it was wrong, because he only does it occasionally now. Still, it messed me up badly, because now if anyone so much as hugs me uninvitedly or unexpectedly, they usually trigger a flashback.
Here’s my short personal story about self injury.
I started when I was eleven years old (now I’m 21). I scratched my arms with needles. Sometimes I punched a needle very deep in my arm. I stopped when I developed an infected artery.
This was a short stop. After a couple of months I began to hit myself. I threw myself against the wall and struck my arms against my desk. Till this time no one ever noticed the bruises.
It’s like living in a world that gives you a taste of happiness — but for a price. That single moment of happiness you’ve been longing for, taken away, and ripping you apart, laughing at your face.
The taste of blood is sweeter, the colour of it, it used to freak me out, but now it’s so beautiful, watching it flow like a desert spring, on my skin.
It hurts to hide behind a hidden face.
I have nothing poetic to say at this point, I have been in misery since I was 11 years old, with time things would get better I thought, I was wrong. Through the years things have only gotten worse. Last july my best friend killed herself, and I broke up with my boyfriend of six years, they were the only two people I had in this world, besides my mom. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t already depressed from the beginning, but I have been falling lately faster then I ever have before, nobody understands this, some try to be supportive, some are angry.
I got the title of my entry from that book I just finished reading.
You know when you have that lump in your throat, and if you speak you know you’re going to cry, so you just keep your lips tightly sealed and blink a lot?
It’s 6:16 am. I haven’t been to sleep yet. I just finished reading a book, took me a couple of hours. It was about a dead 5 year old. Dead. At five. Thankfully it wasn’t a paedophile who did it. It was an accident. There were times when I was given the impression that it was a paedophile and you can just imagine her bloody clothes and her fear and her everything. Powerful writing. It was fiction. A young girl went missing yesterday; Summer. She was found safe though. But it’s not always like that, it’s not always a fiction book.