To be honest I never knew cutting yourself, burning yourself, scratching yourself and such had a name. I always just called it ‘cutting’ or ‘burning’ etc. I only knew that not eating had a name, not the other stuff I do to myself.
Well, I don’t really know where to start, except to say I’m doing this so other people have a chance to see what it’s really like in my life. Not as ‘spoiled’ as everything fucking thinks. Sorry, it just really aggravates me when people say that and they don’t even know what your home life is like.
When I was around, erm, eleven or so. I started cutting. I was up late one night, crying… I couldn’t stop. My dog had passed away the week before and she was my only friend, for real. I didn’t know what to do. I knew two people who cut, so the thought registered. At first I was mortified that I’d ever think of something like that. But, thinking of it wasn’t where it ended, oh no.
I went upstairs and took the smallest, thinnest, sharpest knife out of the block. I took it downstairs and sat on the edge of my bed thinking about it for what seemed an eternity. Then, I did it. I carved, the words ‘Broken Soul’ into my arm. It hurt like hell, but that pain let me know I was alive, that I could still bleed. It opened my eyes to the fact that I wasn’t dead, like it seemed.
After that night, I continued cutting. I couldn’t stop. It’s so addictive.
Things in my family got tighter, and my life was slowly being subtracted from me just as I seemed to get a grip on it.
To fill you in, when I was three my father left my mother because they were constantly fighting. All the time. In front of no one but me. I spent my first three years of life in a house full of domestic violence. I have three siblings (all half siblings): My sister, Kyana, my father’s child with his first wife, Blaine and Jayson, my mother’s children with her first husband. So I’m pretty much an only child, I’m the only child my parents had together.
My life went down the drain before I even had a chance to see it. My brother and sister slept together. Yes, slept together. And for my parents that was the last straw. They broke up and pulled away after that. I didn’t see my dad for a year or so. Then I started seeing him every other weekend. That was weird because he always had a new girlfriend. And when I was supposed to be spending time with him ‘she’ would always be there.
My mother and I fought. All the time. Two to three times every day. And I’m not exaggerating.
I’ve never been a ‘happy kid’ I don’t feel I have anything to be happy about. I still have nightmares from the beatings and comments of my siblings and the fighting of my parents. I was up all night last night because I kept having nightmares about it, actually.
I can still taste the blood from when my brothers would beat me. I hated it. I wanted to break free and run away. I tried to stand up for myself, and fight back but it didn’t quite work out. It only made things worse.When I turned six my one brother pushed me up against a sheet of glass and choked me until my face was all red from lack of oxygen. Just because he thought it would be funny.
I’ve had many close encounters with death. Many accidentally and many purposely.
Like I said I became a SIer about three years or so ago. I do it every night, still. It’s something that I can’t stop. So many people ask ‘why’ when they see the scars and I simply walk away. I don’t even bother trying to help them understand. There’s only one person who understands. Only one person who cares: Kevin.
I met him two years ago this April. He’s just like me, we have so much in common. And all I know is without Kevin I wouldn’t be here. Kevin’s saved me from myself numerous times. I don’t know what to say to him except to tell him I love him. He’s the best friend anyone could ask for.
Kevin, for all the times you’ve helped me with my problems I thank you. For all the times you’ve been there, when no one else gave a damn I thank you. When I fell and couldn’t get up, you were there to help me to my feet and for that I thank you. There’s nothing more that I can say to you. You know how I feel, but thanks.
Just to clarify, I cut myself all the time, I burn myself once in a while. Most of the time I prefer cutting over burning. It lets me know that I bleed and that I’m still able to feel. In fact, I just did it today, I added about twenty to the thirty-five I already had. And no, that’s not the most I’ve ever had. I once had seventy-five on my right arm. I took a dagger and sliced my arm until I was satisfied. Well, no… I wasn’t satisfied but someone took the dagger away. I had no choice but to stop, seeing as I had nothing else to use to keep going. So, I waited till the blood dried then I picked the scabs off and repeated that a few times.
I’m trying to stop but I can’t succeed. It’s too addicting. I have been surrounding myself with people though, because I won’t do it in front of someone. But I don’t want to be around people all the time because then I can’t do it at all. And that makes me crazy, I have to cut sometimes.
All I can really say is to those out there who do this to try and cope with life. I know what it’s like, and just remember, you’re not alone.