When I was fifteen, I was arrested, and thought that the police would tell my parents, so instead, I told them. I had never seen them so upset, so I tried to stop… Sadly, that only lasted for two weeks. From there on, my cuts became deeper, and multiplied. A few friends had become worried, but I promised to never let it get out of hand. Then, for a few weeks I started to fall into a deep depression. It got to the point where I wouldn’t even get out of bed. I slept about eighteen hours a day. I probably only left it once or twice a day. It was then, that my cutting really started to take off.
I am fifteen. I started cutting my arms when I was thirteen and a half because it was one of two options for me at that time of life, it was suicide or self-harm, I was that low. I did not want to die but nor wanted to live the life I had around me.
In the space of two years I lost the dad I know, he moved out and we did not speak for about a year after that. We are still not OK. I see him one day a week for a couple of hours and we don’t even get on then.
That Sunday was no different to any other Sunday. It was the 17th December, and I had to work, so I got up 9, showered and dressed by 9:30 and then dad drove me to work, I was working for Clinton cards at the time. I felt odd, sad, I wanted to cry, and I felt like someone had stamped on my heart. I was so used to the feeling and just carried on as normal. Started off the day normally, mad rushes of customers, quiet periods, and customers in the way when you’re trying to fill racks and shelves, same old shit different day.
Then it hit me, darkness swept over me and took my breath away. I felt numb, I couldn’t hear properly, it was like I’d gone so deep into my own head that I couldn’t judge what I was doing. I tried to shake it off, I managed to a bit. So I did what I always did when this happens, I hid. I ran into the stockroom and started finding the stock I needed. I spent ages getting it because I knew I’d have to go back out there with all them people glaring at me like some freak if they see the scars. I knew I’d be surrounded by people wherever I was on the shop floor that day.
Sitting here feeling like my heart got ripped out. It hurts so much when your razor is just sitting there wanting to be picked up and used and you know you’ll go overboard if you touch it so you turn away and cry and try to not hurt yourself but inside you feel as if someone carved you out and left you hollow but somehow full of pain, more so than you would believe possible and at first the tears can’t find a way to your eyes they cannot spill you hold back you are crying inside the tears that don’t fall are gathering inside you in a big salty puddle, drowning you and you know you’re going to die you know you are going to drown within yourself and you struggle to find a foothold a handhold some salvation something to grasp but there is nothing the walls are slippery there is nothing to grasp you are falling slipping deeper into yourself knowing that once you are there you can’t come back you will stay inside your protective shell and not deal with the pain that comes with dealing with real life people with the real life world and you are scared because everywhere you turn you see backs not hands.
Ok. Here is the story of what happened to me when I needed stitches. Remember, there could be triggers in it. There are, in fact, a lot of things in here that could be triggers. Make sure you are safe, okay?
It was a Tuesday night. I had just started school. I was in an okay mood. I mean, I wasn’t exactly happy, but for once, I wasn’t sad, either. But around 9:00 p.m., I got that old familiar urge. The one I couldn’t control. So I grabbed my gauze, tape, scissors, my Little White Box (where my blades are), and my robe.
I went in the bathroom and ran a bath tub. I almost always cut in the bath tub. I got in, and carefully shaved my legs. Then I proceeded to shave all the hair from my left forearm. I knew that I was gonna go deep, and I’d probably have to use Butterfly Stitches to hold it shut.
I am a male of 50. I have suffered from depression, panic and anxiety, and OCD as long as I have any memory of my past; as far back as age three or four. For the past few years I have developed agoraphobia and rarely venture outside my home alone. I was one of seven children and we were all unplanned and unwanted as well as being reminded what a burden we were and all physically abused by my so-called Dad. I remember I wanted to end my life as far back as age five.
I hope by this message I can help someone, but each person is different and will view my ideas in a variery of ways.