I’m a female from Portugal and I have the habit of making deep scratches on my skin, either in my inner arm, my legs, and my stomach. I used to try and persuade, a boy I knew who cut himself, to stop doing it. But we grew apart and now I understand him better.
I think there’s nothing wrong with harming myself, as long as I don’t cut too deep. But my best friend tells me she’s gonna warn my parents about it if I don’t stop. I’ve stopped for a while now, cause I’m afraid she’ll see it sometime. She used to do it, but she had psychological help and she stopped, she thinks I should too.
Ever since I can remember I’ve been bullied. Every day I wake up and know I have to go through it all again. I’m not like everyone else. I don’t dress the same as them or lead the same life. I didn’t ask to be bullied, and no one has the right to bully me. But becuase they have, I’ve turned to this. I get in from school and just throw my bag down and cut myself. I don’t want to, and I hate it after I’ve done it.
But I can’t stop. It just makes me feel better. I told my mum I got bullied a lot… She said she would sort it out… She told my school and left it there. Like the school cares at all! No one does.
I got to work late for the first time in a year and a half. Within that time, I had been coming to this grocery store diligently and working with a smile on my face. Customers wrote comment cards, saying that I was a sociable person and co-workers that I had never met knew my name.
“Nicole, why are you late?” My boss, Sue, came up to me, staring directly into my eyes.
“I called…” I was hesitant with my words as little things tended to set her off.
The other night I was engaging in my most frequent (and embarrassing and shameful) sort of self-injury, which involves picking at, peeling back and generally removing my toenails. What starts as an unconscious ‘picking-at’ with my fingers always winds up a full-blown effort with scissors and blades. That particular night I managed to completely mangle my left “big toe” and two other lesser toes. Because I do this so frequently, there isn’t much nail left to remove, so it’s just another blood-letting.
For some reason, clear evidence of this doesn’t seem to disturb people hardly at all when compared to cutting. (Burns, which can be written off as accidental, are rarely noticed, but are saved for more important emotional turmoil). When I lived alone, I would do extensive cutting and biting on my forearms. Now that I live with my mom, I can’t do that anymore without a scene ensuing.
Okay, well, here it goes. It’s not easy to talk about, it’s even harder to read or listen to, but well, I think it’ll help me.
All my life, every aspect that I can remember, has been hell on earth. I was five years old, and my parents had gone out for the evening. My cousin, Charly, was supposed to babysit and put my sister and I to bed. I crawled under my covers as usual, and got a peck on the cheek, nothing out of the ordinary. But then he kissed my lips. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. Next thing, he was sliding under the covers and fondling me, telling me that I was a big girl and big girls are quiet and nice.
Next thing I knew, I was being raped.
I have been self-mutilating for years. Maybe something like three years… Since I was seventeen years old I guess. It started in spring. I had been depressed for months. It was just unbearable going to school, concentrating, meeting people and feeling completely horrible at the same time. I had just few friends and I was alone most of the time. Then one day I walked home and just cut my left arm about twenty times. After that I have been doing it, not regularly but still too often. At first the cuts weren’t deep at all and barely left scars but as time passed by I had to cut deeper and deeper. And it was becoming so much easier.