“I know I’m alone. I got nothing. There’s no one to share my secrets, dreams, and deepest thoughts with. I’m all alone, except for this knife lying in the drawer next to my bed.”
I’m a fifteen, almost sixteen, year old girl from the Netherlands, and I’m writing this because I’m currently in the mood to grab a razor and cut myself. Instead of that, I guess I’ll contribute to this amazing website. I hope somebody will find some kind of relief in reading this.
When you look at my life and the family I’m from, it seems quite a strange thing I’m occasionally sliding this razor across my wrists. My parents are together happily, somewhat, I’m not incredibly ugly and I wasn’t really bullied. But there’s one thing, I think. When I was about six, seven years old we used to have this babysitter. At that time he was about the same age I’m now, fifteen, sixteen or so. And I’ll say without pointing out any details that he sexually abused me during a period of about a year. When he moved away to go to college, the abuse stopped.
No one ever found out. I kept it all to myself. Except for some people I know just from the internet, there’s no one who knows the exact details about what’s happened. And I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t think I will enjoy sending him to court. I’d rather just let things pass by, while I try to forget. And there’s a lot that I want to forget. There were nights in which I were almost paralysed with fear, wishing that he wouldn’t come. It seems like that all I could feel at that time, was fear. Returning nightmares haunted me, and they still come back sometimes, even now. There was also this feeling of emptiness. Feeling dead, emotionally.
The shame when I was old enough to understand what happened to me was even worse. When there was a birthday of a member of his family coming up, I would be sick. If I wasn’t, I was scared to dead, scared to see him, to meet his eyes, and I was afraid that he had told anyone. I remember once being at that house and being so totally struck by fear, that I threw up in their toilet.
But when he left for good, almost, and went to study in an even more far away town, I started to forget what had happened.
I can’t exactly remember when I actually started harming myself. As far as I know, it has always been there, even on a very young age. I remember as a little kid, I would spend hours just crying, and I would bash my head against the wall, just to make the thoughts spinning around in my head stop. At the age of fourteen, or so, I learnt about cutting from some article I read in a magazine. Shortly after, I started cutting myself. I never cut really deep, though. I sport a lot, and while wearing those outfits with short sleeves it was hard to hide the cuts and scars. It didn’t take long before my parents found out — and my mother had a really large deal in preventing me from cutting myself. When I came at the point at which three of my cuts needed stitches, my mom started searching my room for knifes before I’d go to sleep, and most of the times I had nothing left to harm myself with.
The previous school year was really bad. It felt like I snapped. All the feelings I’ve always been hiding in my life, suddenly made their way to the surface. Instead of smiling, I always seemed to be near crying. I hated school, all the people on it, and I hate how they didn’t even seem to notice, nor care, about any of my feelings. I ended up staying home “sick” a lot. My grades were getting worse and worse. And because I was isolating myself from every social contact in such a way, a lot of people simply started ignoring me. People of which I thought who were my friends, moved on to more “happy” and “social” people. The class counsellor (I’m not sure what the word for it in English is) who was supposed to help people and guide me, simply hated me. I remember him calling me “lazy and always trying to make profit of others” on this phone call he made to my parents.
And I think that taught me a lot about life in general. I’ll quote a song title from Eric Clapton: “Nobody knows you when you’re down and out.” And that’s true. No one really does care about me, I think. People move on.
Compared to last year, this year I’m a lot better. I switched schools. But I still feel so dead, emotionally, and at some times the urge to hurt myself is so great, that I pick up a needle and fill both of my arms with tiny scratches. I never really cut myself deep anymore. I hide what I truly feel from everybody I know, like I always used to. I even lied to this shrink I used to visit. I don’t want to bring up what happened in the past. I want to forget all. And I have to admit it works slightly better this way. It helps a tiny little bit not feeling hated by everyone around you. But it’s not like all my pain is suddenly taken away. Maybe I’ll hold on living like this, and maybe I’ll collapse while I’m trying to survive. Who knows.
I don’t feel like I’ve got anything to remain alive for, at the moment. I can’t understand why I was put on this world.
I wonder if I’m even made for living.
You can e-mail me at this amazingly long e-mail address I’ve created. It’s firstname.lastname@example.org.