If you like stories with happy endings then you’re better of reading something else. This story is far from a happy ending. To start off I am sixteen years old and I have self-injured for a little more than three years.
It all started one night when my mom had a little bit too much to drink and she had passed out on the couch. My little sister was starting to get worried about her, because she had never seen her like this before. So I tried to go in and wake my mom up to move her to the bedroom. When I tried to wake my mom up she got really upset and told me to never touch her again and that I was a worthless piece of shit. I just lost it. I had never expected her to say anything like that to me especially in front of my sister, so I went into my room crying and locked my door. Looked around my room and there was a razor sitting nearby. So I grabbed the razor and took the blades out of it, rolled up my sleeve and made several large cuts on my arm and for the fist time in years I had actually felt alive. I ran into the bathroom and grabbed some gauze to bandage up my arm. I then went to bed.
I woke up the next morning and the blood had run through the gauze and onto the bed. I didn’t pay it much attention, just made my bed and went to school. My arm was a little sore so I made sure that nothing got around it. I wore long sleeves all day long. This is very unusual for me. When I came home I washed my sheets and acted like nothing had ever happened. My mom knew nothing about it.
I continued cutting my self for a year. After things were starting to look better for our family my dad got a call and said that he was being sent to Iraq to fight in the war. About three months after he left my mom started up her old drinking habit again. One night she was fixing supper for me and my sister and had a little too much to drink and she passed out on the table. While my sister and I were in my bedroom watching a movie, we smelled some smoke coming from the kitchen. I ran into the kitchen and saw my mom lying there on the table passed out. I grabbed the pot not thinking and burned my hand, but I luckily got my mom and sister out of the house and called 911. The only thing that burnt was part of the kitchen. We were all sent to the hospital, no one was hurt seriously just my hand. We stayed at a friends house the rest of the night.
Come morning my mom went back to the house to try and fix it up a bit, while my sister and I stayed at one of my old boyfriends houses, we stayed their for a little over three weeks off and on. My mom finally got the kitchen fixed up and we moved back in. The house fire really made my mom realise, but not for long. Two months later she started drinking again. This left me to take care of my sister once again because my mom was either always out with friends or was drinking.
Finally after about a year of having to deal with this, I finally told her that she needed to change or I could not continue to live with her because she was causing me so much pain. That night I showed her my cuts and told her why I was cutting my self. She finally got herself put into rehab. She went to rehab for a very long time and eventually fully recovered, but while she was in rehab she had got me sent to a therapist. I have been going to her off and on every since.
My cutting started out as a way to feel alive and not so numb, but now it is like an addiction. As of today, December 25, 2004 I have a total of three hundred cuts all over my body, maybe even more. It is so difficult to stop. I am afraid to stop. That would be like taking away a part of me. I couldn’t picture life without it. It’s the only way I know of how to express feelings that words can’t. I do wish I had never started.