I never thought that I would become a person that would end up cutting myself, but I did. It all started freshman year. My friend that I have known for five years started ditching me for her boyfriend, and my sister was involved in gangs, and she was always running away, she was in jail and mental hospitals. My parents were trying to get her the help she needed, and they were paying less attention to me. My sweet sixteen birthday was ruined when my sister was sentenced to jail. My parents were always visiting her. My closest friend starting ditching me. I had nowhere to turn. I took a knife one day and I cut myself. It was such a relief for me, I was so numb I didn’t feel the pain, and I loved the way the blood felt dripping down my arm. I now use a razor, I try to stop because I don’t want to disappoint my parents but I can’t. I do it on my legs and stomach so no one can see the scars even though I have them on my arms. Maybe one day I will overcome this, but for now I need it to calm me and keep in control.
It all started when I was in my end year of grade 6. My life was a living hell, I was being made fun of because of my weight. Then one day I cut myself. I don’t even know where I got the idea ever to cut myself but I did and it felt good. I felt like I was on top of the world like no one could bring me down. Now I’m fourteen and I still cut. I use razors. I cut my wrist, ankles, stomach, thighs. I’m so lost now, no one knows that I cut and I don’t want anyone ever to find out. I’m ashamed of what I do to myself. Sometimes I’m so nervous about someone finding out because I have to wear long sleeves all the time. People in school ask me why I have sweaters on all the time and I’m just like I don’t know. I think about killing myself all the time, I hate my life so much. I’m the biggest mistake ever out on this earth and I don’t know why I’m here. I want to die. My one wish is to be dead. I’m so sick of hiding my cutting and I don’t want to stop. Well, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. I cut two or three times a day. No one ever listens to what I have to say, it’s like if it’s coming from my mouth then it must be something stupid, I’m failing in school no one ever takes me seriously, I’m like a big joke.
So, I’m gonna stop boring everyone with my story, well sorta story. To everyone who will be reading this and if you self injure then I wish you luck. Don’t give up because sooner or later your life is going to turn around.
I started cutting when I was thirteen. I did it because of a grade school teacher that spent most of the day putting down everything I did. Anything from school work, to me personally. The first time I did it was in the bathroom at school. Six years ago and I still remember it like it was yesterday. After a while it got so bad that I’d sit in my classroom and, with my pencil eraser, burn long gashes into my arms. No one ever even noticed. Cutting made me invisible and I liked that feeling. It made it so I didn’t have to care what people thought of me, or what they were saying behind my back. I had that one thing that I could control and that was all that really mattered. Once I got into high school I’d get stressed out, or hurt, so I’d cut. I kept telling myself that I controlled it, and that was all I needed to keep me going. But now I realise that I’m no longer in control. Whenever I’m upset the first thing I do is cut. I don’t even think about it, it just happens. I’ve never told anyone about because it makes me ashamed. I always do it in a place that no one will see, so I don’t have to explain what happened to me. Never in my life did I think I could be addicted to hurting myself. But I know now that you can be. It’s a scary thing.
I started at thirteen, when I felt so incredibly trapped inside my mind. Unable to defeat my paranoia of those around me, even my friends, I turned to something that made it better. But as I came out of my depression, I wanted to stop. It was the hardest mental thing I’ve ever had to do.
Two years later, I discovered that one of my new friends was doing it. Hearing her talk about it made me reminisce about how good it felt.
I’ve started again. And I don’t ever want to stop.
This is My Life
I wake up and I see the scars. I go to bed, see the scars, take a shower, scars. Scars everywhere. No short sleeve shirts, still see the scars. Everywhere.
I started cutting when I was thirteen. I stopped when I was eighteen. I’m nineteen now and cutting has ruined my life. I used to think my scars were beautiful, battle wounds of depression, isolation and mania. Why I started, I can only vaguely remember now but it had something to do with Fathers day. It was an innocent scratching of the hand but it progressed into something far more dangerous. An addiction in many ways. I’ve been hospitalised, put in residential programs, foster homes and group homes because of it. I am now only starting to get my life on track. When you cut you may think it’s a healthy thing to do, that it gets rid of all those bad feelings but in truth it is only adding to them. I’m not writing to chastise anyone because I’ve been there, and I still know exactly how it feels. I still get cravings to see the blood run, to feel that surge of adrenaline that lets me now I’m alright. But I don’t do it. Why? Because I’m ashamed of my scars sometimes (not all the time because I still do think they’re beautiful sometimes). Summertime is particularly bad because I wear pants and long sleeves just because I don’t feel like having some moron ask what happened to me. So don’t let this happen to you if you are a cutter. All you need is the right support and I could possibly be that for you. So feel free to email me anytime at email@example.com. If I could help anyone of you out there it would mean the world to me. Mainly because I never had that support myself. Take care and remember: You are not alone.
This action was definitely not expected by me. I hid it so well all throughout high school. I was the girl that never did anything bad: I graduated never drinking a drop or doing anything with drugs. I didn’t even hang out with those types really. I was so proud the day I left, but once I got into college I started drinking. A lot.
I thought leaving the university after the first semester, and coming to a community college closer to home would take care of things, but it didn’t really. Things were good for awhile, but it was when I started my second year that my problems became so obvious.
I dated lots of different guys, my friends said that it was like I always had someone around, and I was smoking weed a lot. It was 2nd semester that I started drinking and partying more. First semester it was a severe eating disorder, that almost killed me, then it became a drinking problem that became my undoing. I got to the point where I was sometimes drinking night, if not every other, and my sexual habits were picking up too. I am not proud of any of these things, but I find it necessary to put in the story to show how things were step by step falling apart.
It was March 14th, my moms birthday and I called her. She called me back later, and I was drunk: I managed to ruin that for her. Then a few weeks later during easter weekend, I went to a kegger in a nearby town (close to my hometown), and came home drunk. She locked me out, but finally let me in, after almost breaking the window. I ruined Easter too. I also told my mom about a recent MIP that I’d received in the dorms that previous Monday, so that didn’t help anything.
The next day was really the turning point. Everyone knew that I wasn’t doing well with everything. I had a good day. It was April First after all. I received a call from my mom that night, saying how she wanted to come to court with me on Wednesday for my MIP, and that angered me. My other friend told me that I’m just always full of something, if it’s not one thing it’s another. Then my best friend at school said that she thought I had a drinking problem (after the first fight with the other friend, I decided lets drink, because I was angry). So, let’s just say everything piled up, and quickly.
This has led everyone to think for a long time that it’s their fault. That what they said or didn’t say, or didn’t do or what they did do was the reason that I took a bunch of pills. After my best friend said that, I just got to thinking that there’s no hope for me, I’ll never get better. I suffered from depression for over 5 years, and was on meds for it, a lot. I shouldn’t have been drinking with all those meds, worst of all my drinking was out of control. I left her room (I’m mentioning no names), and came to mine, and grabbed my 5 bottles of psych meds and took a half months worth of each bottle. I must have taken close to 70 pills, and these were high milligramme pills, over 20,000 milligrammes. I felt fine at first. I slowly, calmly took the pills, putting the lids back on the bottles and placing them in my shelf again. Then two of my girlfriends came in, and one knew about some of these meds, thank god. She knew I was on them. I started crying, balling more like it. My other friends walked in, and I kind of remember screaming. I remember talking to a cop, and getting in the ambulance. The whole hall was out of their rooms, and I knew that what I’d just done was going to be everywhere by 2 a.m.
My old roommate called my mom, and I remember waking up the next day; my mom told me that I’d went into a coma and had 4 grand mal seizures as a result of the medicine mixture with the half bottle of vodka I drank.
If I knew that all that trouble would have happened, I never would have done it. I was drunk and not thinking clearly, and I really didn’t want to die. I hurt so many around me, and I was in the hospital for a week, and every day people came to see me. It was awful in the psychiatric unit, I will never forget how hellish that was.
I almost died. Those words ring in my head every day. It’s only been 3 weeks ago that this happened, but I owe so much to so many. Many are mad I’m back at school, but I just take it day by day. I am still in awe that I’m alive, I’m so lucky.
I was diagnosed as chemically dependent, so I don’t party anymore. Sometimes I don’t even want to be around people, but I know I need to deal with this. Life only comes once, and some get a second chance, I was one of them. How wonderful is that?
I am still figuring life out, and I know I’m just starting, but if you’re thinking about doing this, please think again. If you just want to cry for help, then cry don’t kill yourself. I was doing just that, and I almost died.
Life is wonderful, and I’m relearning all this. There is hope.