Wow… What a World…
Copyright, Sarah M
My name is Sarah. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, that’s why I’m not ashamed to admit my name. I am somewhat afraid to tell some people, for fear that they won’t understand, and will judge me. In fact, judging is what got me where I am. As you have probably guessed, I am a cutter… I am also a bulimic. I throw up whatever I eat. And it’s actually gotten to the point where I don’t even have to force it up anymore; it comes on its own. Most of the time, if I don’t throw up, my stomach will start to ache. If I don’t cut when I need to, I take out anger on other people, things, and situations. If I can’t cut, I punch, or yell, or scream, for no reason (or so it seems to others). This started in 9th grade. I started throwing up, when I found out my best friend did. She taught me how, without really meaning to. She quit when her mom found out. She also told me she was a cutter. I was shocked. I had heard about cutting, but had never really known anyone to do it, and didn’t really know why someone would. I told her how stupid I thought that was, and begged her to stop. She eventually stopped, and is going through counselling to help with her problems. She’s on medications, and I believe it’s really helping her. Then I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t control what was going on. I grabbed a box cutter, and cut my hand. Over and over, I cut so deep and hard. I cut on my hand, for the simple fact, that I didn’t want anyone to see my cuts, and I didn’t want scars. I moved from my hand, to my leg, and that’s where I cut now. I have scars, and I don’t really feel bad for making them, because they helped me deal. My close friends know what I’ve done, and they try and help. One of my new year’s resolutions is to stop cutting for at least one full month. I could be positive, and say forever, but I know not to fool myself that way. As far as my bulimia goes, I don’t see what’s so bad about it. It’s another way to deal for me. I know I’m doing harm to my body, but no one can stop me, unless I want to stop, and for right now, I don’t want to stop. My family and others around me, push me so far, I go into a state where I don’t have control. I deal with that by cutting, and if I can’t cut, I throw up. I’m even on a water diet (I only drink water), because I want to lose weight. I feel as though, I must be perfect. My family all has anger problems. My brother is in court-ordered counselling, which doesn’t seem to be helping him at all (he just got busted for pot, and is back in court – he’s only seventeen), but let’s hope it does in the long run. My mother and father smoke, grow, and deal pot, and my father is an alcoholic. They are most of my problems. I hope to leave this environment soon. I fear that if I do leave though, my family will hate me forever. Cutting is my only way to deal. Thanks for reading my story, and if anyone wants to talk, e-mail me.
Copyright, Sarah M
I’m sixteen. I have been an SI’er for about seven months now. When I first read about it, I was confused. I remember thinking “how could anyone do that?” Then I found out my friend was doing it. I still didn’t understand at the time, but when she explained it to me, I started to wonder what it’s like. I was with that same friend one time, and her new boyfriend. After a night of driving around, he made me feel like dirt, and I couldn’t stand it. I sat in the back of his car, and scratched all the skin off my knuckle. When I got home, I told my mom I scraped it on something in the mall. She believed me. Then, one day, I found out, he made her feel like shit, and I cut for my first time. The first time I cut, I tried calling my friend, but she wasn’t there. So I grabbed a knife, and proceeded to cut line after red line into my hand. I had seen some pictures of how scars look on a person’s arm, so I cut my hand instead. Looking back at my hand today, I can still make out scars, but for the most part, they look like life-lines. Of course I can still tell where the cuts were. The next day, I went to school. My friend found out I did, and I felt horrible. Then I went to the nurse, with a rash on my forearm, and she saw my hand. She forced it open, and asked me what happened. I told her “oh, I just cut myself” and she said “on purpose?” and I said “no, I fell.” I don’t think she ever really believed me, but she let me leave anyways. I decided now that most people know I cut on my hand, I have to find a new place. When it came to where I had to let some red out, I cut my ankle. I figured if I got a scar there, it wouldn’t be that noticeable. I didn’t use a knife however. My mom had caught me trying to take it, so I used a box cutter. I have proceeded to cut half-way up my leg now. I never let the scars heal completely, and move more and more up my leg. Just last night, I cut a big gash in my leg, because I got my report card, and my mom yelled, because I have C’s at my Governor’s School (I go to two schools, and at Governor’s School I take college courses at a local college). It’s still bleeding off and on today, but I can’t tell my mom or dad, because I’m supposed to be perfect. I’m the “perfect child”. My brother is already seeing a counsellor, court ordered, because of his anger. Not only am I a cutter, I also wake up in the middle of the night, crying, because of memories that come to me in the night. I am also a bulimic, and I only eat one small meal a day. I have not had my period in four months, because my “hormonal balance” was disrupted; that happens when you throw up. I also drink occasionally. At least when I pass out, I won’t feel the need to cut. I’ve only attempted suicide once; my cell rang right before I took the pills, and my friend was on the other end. I’ve just recently told her about her saving my life, but right after it happened, I told her she was my best friend ever, and I love her till the end; she didn’t know what got into me, and even asked if I was OK, because I had told her once before, but not just out of the blue. The reason I wanted to take those pills, was because I thought my mom had found out I was throwing up, and I know it’ll hurt her if she does. She needs a perfect child, and I’m sorry I can’t be that for her. I got so scared, I was shaking, and my teeth were chattering. I was crying uncontrollably, and all I wanted to do was talk to a friend, but her cell died right when she answered. Then thankfully, she called back. I still have the urge just to end it all, but I hold back. I have a few friends who SI too, and we try to help each other. Sometimes one of us slip, but we know the others will be there for us, to help us get back on track. One of my ways to deal, is to look at pictures, read stories, and poetry about other SI’ers. I also write poetry, but I don’t show anyone. I’ve only showed my “cutter” poems to one friend. I tend to keep it that way for a while. I have a tough struggle ahead of me, but I think I can do it, and I believe everyone on this site, has the strength too. I hope me, and others like me, have enough courage to STOP SI’ing.
Copyright, Sarah M
My name’s Sarah. I’ve been a cutter for about seven months now. I know I need therapy, and I know I should talk to a professional. But I can’t. My brother is already seeing a counsellor for anger problems. But in my family, I’m supposed to be the perfect one. I’m not supposed to have actual emotions. I’m Sarah, and I can “deal with anything”. My mom always wants me to be perfect. She wants me to be intelligent, and sophisticated, and elegant. I’m none of those. I’m in Governor’s school, but I’m “only making C’s”, which in her eyes, is grounds for failure. She also doesn’t know I drink. I drink behind her back. She always says “no, Sarah doesn’t drink, she swears off drinking”. I also have emotional problems, where I wake up in the middle of the night, and cry. Sometimes I don’t even know why. I just let all my emotions out. Sometimes it gets so bad, that I can’t stop crying, and I go to my desk, and take out my box cutter. Unlike most people, I use a box cutter. I’ve used a knife once, and I tried to use it another time, but when I grabbed it, my mother asked “what do you need that for”. I also have problems with bulimia. I throw up constantly. Lately, I stopped for a friend, then I can’t help it, and without even trying, my body throws up the food. Then I start all over again. Another “trying to be perfect” move. I always feel too fat for my mom. I know she wants me to be “everything” and I just can’t do it on my own sometimes, so I resort to harmful tactics. My cutting all started, when I heard my friend was doing it. Before then, I used to think, “why would anyone do that?” Then came a time where I couldn’t stand everything going on. I was with my friend and her new boyfriend. He had made me feel worse than dirt, so I scratched. I scratched all the skin off my knuckle, and when I came home, my hand was bleeding. My friend was spending the night with me, so I told her to do something for me, and I then screamed, and pretended I had just hit my hand up against something, to cause it to bleed. She looked a little sceptical, but she believed me, and so did my mom. Then I couldn’t take it another day, when he made her feel like dirt, so I cut again. I had seen all the pics of scars on people’s arms, so I cut my hand. When I look at it today, you can still see scars, but mostly they look like life-lines. Then my friends found out I cut. I even had a scare in the nurse’s office. I went to the nurse with a rash on my forearm. She made me hold my arm out, and she looked at it, then she saw one of the cuts, and forced my hand open. I didn’t know what to say at first. She asked what happened, and I said “oh, I just cut my hand” and she said “on purpose?” and I said, “no, I fell” and I don’t think she believed me, but she let me leave anyways. Then I decided, after a few more days of fresh scars, I needed a new spot. My friends knew I cut on my hand, so I had to find somewhere else, that no one could see. I then chose my ankle on my left leg. My ankle has scar after scar. I even cut up to the middle of my leg, because I needed to cut, and ran out of room where I was. It works perfectly, because I hate to wear shorts, and I’m always wearing pants, so no one sees my “dirty deed”. Most the time I cut, I cut to ease someone else’s pain. If I find out a friend is upset, I cut for them. I need help, but I think the only way to completely stop, is to not start. I wrote this to help others see, you’re not by yourself. Remember there’s always someone out there like you. Including me.