I’m fourteen, and have been cutting for about two years. I have numerous scars of words, pictures and lines on my body, let me tell you, it’s ugly. I have “Die”, “Love Sucks”, “I Loved You”, “Hurt”, and “Hate”. I have eighty-four scars from cutting, and I’m hoping that the number won’t get any bigger.
When I want to cut, and try not to, I go through somewhat of a withdrawal. I start shaking and crying, my whole body trembles, and I start to go numb. My mother found out I’m doing it again (she doesn’t know that I never stopped) and she’s sending me somewhere.
I know most people on this site have suffered abuse, torment or any number of problems. But the weird thing about me is, my life’s pretty okay. My home life is great, I’m really close to my parents and I’ve got some close friends at school. So why do I cut?
If someone read the shortened version of my life, they’d say I started cutting when I was twelve. That year of my life I had no friends at all, I was feeling incredibly lonely, and basically the year was so bad I blocked it out of my head. I can hardly remember it.
The world is grey today, I think. Except for the trees, which are just beginning to blush their October shades of scarlet and copper, everything is grey.
The two police officers haven’t said much since we left the hospital, and I’m relieved. I just don’t want to talk. 12 hours in the emergency room, right after another 24 hours of precarious sanity, tends to drain a person. It’s especially draining when “crisis intervention” becomes a household word. I couldn’t bring myself to look at my mother as the police wound shackles and handcuffs around my ankles, my wrists. I knew I’d start to cry again. Just as we left, I saw her standing solemnly in the parking lot, with her tired expression (the one she’d reserved for all five of my hospitalizations). All I could do was wave.
My self infliction was never bad. In fact, it wasn’t even serious. To the eyes of my own… but people believed it was, and that I could really harm myself. I didn’t really wish to die at the moment as much as I kinda do now. But don’t get my wrong… I don’t want to die because I don’t like my life. my life’s fine. Sure I’m on happy pills and my mum still is all itchy but she’s getting better and I’m happy about that but… I’m just so interested in the dead, in death, what happens after you die? I want to find out so bad that it kills me to find out now. Even if I do leave people behind…
But back to my whole self infliction little problem. I believe it all started in the 7th grade without me even realizing it… Is that even possible? I was so obscure. Anything’s possible. I would always play around with my cat, this little demon that could totally thrash your hand up with her claws… I let her.
My name is Lisa. I started SI when I was about 14. I am now almost 16. I can’t remember the exact first time when I first hurt myself. I know I’ve done it lots of times before I was 14, but I only seriously started around that time. I remember a girl in my class showed up to school with cuts all over her arms and everyone was talking behind her back saying things like “man she’s lost it” or “what an attention seeker”, but strangely I felt I could understand why she did it. So a few weeks later I tried scratching my arm with a razor. At first I was like “uhm… ok… why the hell did I do that? It doesn’t do anything.”
I started cutting when I was 12, maybe right before I was 13… anyhow, I started with about ten slices high on my thigh every day some weeks and every other day other weeks. Then in 1999 my habit got worse. It escalated to maybe 20 on a good day to 50 on a worse day. That lasted every day until 2001. It slowed down again in 2002 and stopped altogether for 8 months. Then christmas 2002, it came back with a vengeance, and about 50 cuts everyday.
When I was ten years old, my father killed himself. He had been having problems with finding a suitable career. He and my mother had been divorced three years earlier.
My father had been visiting us. He was on leave from a mental hospital I believe, but I don’t really know because my mother and I have never really discussed the finer details.
This doesn’t sound like much compared to the other stories on this site, which does open your eyes to what others have to cope with, but it seems to play on my mind.
I’m fourteen and last year the stresses of school and grades became too much.
I found myself fantasizing about commiting suicide off the roof of my school, which sounds weird but I couldn’t help it. I imagined how people would react and I thought they wouldn’t care.