I used to think that self mutilation was just about the worst thing a person could do to themselves. Every time I heard about another suicide I’d wonder why someone would resort to that.
I guess I began getting depressed around thirteen, in 7th grade. There were so many family problems (like my parents being on the verge of a divorce and my brother’s drug dependency) that affected me personally, and I changed from a happy pre-teen to a detached teenager. I would always wear black and only hung out with two other people. I thought about cutting all the time but only resulted in writing in my diary. When my mom found that and read it I grew even more depressed because I realised there was no one I could trust — not even my own blood. Eighth grade was good to me, I was finally happy and made new friends but ninth was the year that turned my world upside down. I moved across the country and had to be the new kid at at a high school during the fourth quarter. This was the time when everyone had their friends and certain groups, so I didn’t know anyone and was literally invisible. So one day when I was teased horribly and had nowhere to turn I snuck into my dad’s garage late at night and stole his box cutters. I remember that I wanted to bleed so that I could feel the pain on the outside the way I felt it on the inside. I wore long sleeves to cover the cuts and soon they grew into scars. I’m currently in 10th grade, two months from summer vacation, but I still cut. I have for over a year now. A couple of people ask me now and then why I always wear long sleeves and bracelets but I find excuses to avoid the truth. I’ve been to counselling, sought friends, and written stories to vent, but nothing works. I honestly stopped cutting for two months but started again last week. They’ve gotten much deeper this time and I’m not afraid of the pain. Cutting is something I’ve grown used to, and now I finally understand why people resort to suicide. It’s not the “coward’s way out” it’s the only way to be set free from a life you don’t wish to live.
Being depressed is something everyone feels. We all share the same emotions, but the way we choose to deal with them differs.
My story began four years ago. A lot of family problems started tearing everyone apart. I didn’t have anyone to go to since my parents were on the verge of a divorce And my brother was always out doing drugs. It was so hard to go to school because I lost most of my ‘friends’ due to my changes. I always covered myself in black and glared at people who looked at me. I hated the way people judged me and soon I began to hate myself. I thought about cutting and tried it but was too scared to continue. I barely made it through middle school, but freshman year was the worst. I moved across the country and had to enrol in the 4th quarter. So by that time everyone already had their groups and friends. I was the new kid no one noticed and it brought back the depression I’d had a couple years before. I hated everything, including myself, more than ever. My parents tried to put me in counselling, but I convinced the therapist I was fine.
I remember I went to school just like any other day and because I was the new kid, I was made fun of and talked about. I was taunted so bad one day that as soon as I got home, I grabbed my dad’s box cutters. For some reason the sharp razors calmed me down. I cut for hours that night, and I felt so much better.
Now it’s been a year of cutting. I’m trying to stop but the depression is coming back. I can’t tell anyone because they don’t understand and it would break my family’s hearts to know this. The addiction I have to cutting is something I’m so deep into. Sometimes I’ll carry blades to school and go to the bathroom at lunch just to take away the angst.
I hate bleeding because it tells me I’m still alive.
The blade is my addiction.
Although you may not know, you hold a large piece of my heart. For I am in love with your tiny being, in my mind, you are another human, a dark and handsome prince approaching me in my misbegotten world. My mere existence causes other’s troublesome worry, and you sometimes help me relieve a bit of the guilt I carry with me. You are sometimes my saviour, and at other times, my worst enemy. I created everything you are, and I’m comfortable with you.
Sometimes I would like to kill everything you are to me, but I’ve never been much of a fan of murder. When the darkness clouds my vision and the weight of life is compressing my heart, you often times rescue me. I’ve heard somewhere before, that all great things must end. So I fear our parting must occur soon. And though I tremble at the very thought of not having you near, I must somehow find a way to escape these thoughts. You, my dear razorblade, cannot control me anymore.
I am not sure how I will rid of your existence in my mind, for you have taken over every corner, every crevice, every shadowed bit of my head, and you have to understand, that it’s time to leave. You will kill me in the end, if I allow you to continue this. So, my darling, let’s part now, with no regrets, only the memories of what we once had.
I barely remember much when I was I little, but I guess most people don’t. I do remember though that I always liked to pretend I was in pain. Only when I was alone, then about 2 years ago, when I was 14, I became really depressed. You know, clinical depression. Fun. Well, I remember cutting my wrist, but not to kill myself. I loved to see the blood and see the blade move through my skin. I only did it once or twice and my mom ended up finding out. It’s weird ‘cuz I honestly never even knew about self injury and there I was doing it. Well, I had to go into therapy. Again, fun. I had always been a loner with few friends and the ones I had at the time treated me like a piece of shit. No one understood me. Around December ‘99 I decided it would be cool to cut my arm, the other side of my wrist, and drink the blood. They were just scratches and barely bled, but I enjoyed it. A little too much. A little while after that I read an article about a girl who cut herself and I really thought about it. I couldn’t understand why I wanted to do it so bad. It sounded good. So I did. All up my arm. Just scratches, but deep enough to bleed. My friend saw and freaked on me and then my mom saw. She figured that just by talking to me it would make everything better. Yeah, that fixed me right up. I actually stopped for about a month but I couldn’t handle it anymore. I ran to the bathroom and ripped apart a little disposable blade and cut my legs at least 15 times on each side and just let the blood get on the floor and my clothes. I didn’t even bother to take care of them. I cleaned the bathroom and went to bed. Relaxed. Ever since then I have been cutting. The most recent time was today. I skipped my third period class and cut about 7 times on my lower leg. I’m not really sure if I’ve ever needed stitches. If I have, I haven’t gotten them. Somehow I have stopped cutting on my forearm, and just cut on my upper arms, thighs, lower legs, and sometimes stomach. I don’t know when I’m gonna stop or if I’m ever going to. I can’t imagine my life without cutting. I honestly don’t think I’d make it.
I had self harmed for 4 years. At first it was just a little cut here and there. I didn’t even take the blade out. I used disposable razors. It wasn’t ever really bad and I only did it off and on for about 2 years. I’d use my brother’s pocket knife sometimes even. But after about 2 years, is when it got serious. I began taking the blade out and using it more often. For about a year I cut every single day, sometimes 3 or 4 times. I’d cut for every single emotion, it became my only way to deal with anything. I was hospitalised about 4 times for attempted suicide. It was a long hard journey that still is not over. About 7 months ago, I had cut myself, only it was worse than any other time. They were incredibly deep and I thought I would die of blood loss. I didn’t tell my my mom until about a week later. Which was too late for them to get stitches. They took about 2 months to heal and I’ll always have those scars to remind me. I haven’t cut myself since that day. It scared me to think that I was possible of doing that to myself and I knew that if I didn’t stop then, I wouldn’t ever. It became my life, my everything. Had a bad day? Go home and bleed for a while. That’s what I always thought. I’m happy that I have quit but I still have scars that remind me of the amount of pain I once was in. It’s a daily battle that I have to fight. And I doubt it will ever go away. Self harming is like an addiction, a vicious cycle. Once you get pulled down, it’s difficult to climb back out. I still have thoughts, yes. But I somehow manage to make it through each day without self harming. And even if I do slip once or twice. I know I’ll be OK. The feeling of fighting an addiction as powerful as this, is more powerful than the actual self harming itself. I just want to say that it is possible to stop, even if you feel like there’s no point in anything. I used to be you. And it won’t get any easier unless you take charge of yourself and your life.