I started cutting when I was 12. I didn’t actually know what I was doing. Only that it made me feel better. My parents had just recently gotten a divorce, I had moved away from all of my friends, and I had switched schools twice. I found myself going to a school with people who didn’t want to know me. Some were nice to my face, but whether to my face or behind my back they were brutal.
One night the lamp on my dresser broke. Glass was everywhere. I don’t know where I got the idea from, but I wanted to know what it felt like to run the broken glass down my arm. And I did. Not that hard, but just the same it made me feel better.
In time I started cutting more often and deeper. It always made me feel better. I felt that I was special because I didn’t know anybody else that did this, and so it was my secret escape. Even though I didn’t want people to find out because I knew they would not understand.
I progressed from glass, to X-acto blades, and finally I found some razor blades one day around the house. I felt like I had just found a buried treasure. I found that the blood became my tears, and the more I bled the better I felt. I didn’t cut to die. I knew that if I wanted to die, I would do it by other means. Cutting was just a way to express how I was feeling. When I was at school or anywhere else besides home, and I would start to feel upset, like I couldn’t handle things, I would run my fingers over my wrist. It would soothe me.
When I got to high school I was cutting regularly. I met up with a lot of my old friends from before I had moved. One of them one day found out. She had grabed me by the arm and tried pulling me down the hall. I couldn’t help but scream. She had spun around, and just looked at me. I don’t know how she knew but she did. She continued to drag me, but this time to a bathroom. She pulled up my sweatshirt sleeve and looked down at my cut up wrist. Then she looked back at me. And just said simply, you better stop.
That was when I started to try to, and I realized I didn’t have control over it anymore. I felt like I needed to cut or some days I just couldn’t get through. I started to cut on my feet, around my ankles so she couldn’t see, but nothing felt better than when it was on my wrists. Over the course of high school my close friends pushed me to stop and I didn’t cut nearly as often. The only downside I found hit its peak towards the end of my junior year. I OD‘ed on pills. It was the closest I had ever gotten and I won’t ever forget it.
I made it through that one and since then I have actually been pretty good. I don’t really cut anymore. Sometimes when I get really upset I will scratch my arm, but not enough to bleed or really leave marks, just the red lines. However, mainly I will stroke my wrists with my finger tips. Just knowing the history makes me feel better. I still have the urges to cut, and I still think about suicide, but I have found other outlets. I paint, and I write, just about cutting. When nothing else will help I take a red pen and slash a piece of paper with it. Writing has proved to be the best tho.
It is a good feeling to know that you are not alone when it comes to cutting. I am now 19 and in college, I don’t know yet if I am lucky to have lived through it all, but I have found a purpose in life. I want to help others understand their reasons for cutting. I believe that if you haven’t been to that point yourself, you can’t understand what it means to be there.