I’m a 16 year old girl who thinks nothing of life. I hate my mother for giving birth to me and my only wish is to die! I started drum majorettes last year and I saw some freaky scratches on her arms, every time someone asked her what happened she said her cat scratched her, but I knew better. I thought that it would be easier to get rid of my own problems by cutting myself, so I did and it was worth it! Everyone at drummies knew that the cat didn’t really scratch me but I made sure my parents would not find out!
I don’t really know how I ended up on this website, but I’m almost glad I did. And I really don’t know why I’m writing this, but I think it’s a part of my soul that’s been locked up for so long that I don’t know how else to express it.
I’m 16 years old and a recovering anorexic/self-injurer. Last year was the final battle between self… and self, I guess. I had been cutting, burning, picking, biting, and overdosing (which I didn’t know was part of SI) since I was 12 years old. It had become increasingly worse as my eating disorder became more serious. Like most on this page, it was the only way I could get a sense of who I thought was me, the only way I could feel, or just for a moment; stop feeling. It never occured to me that I was hurting everyone who was watching me tumble into the depths of Hell.
It’s an interesting thing. Cutting is a small subculture at my school. I know about 6 other people who do it. My best friend and I have scars for each other. Hers is from when she first found out that I had started (she has done it for a lot longer), and I have a few from a fight we had.
At first I did it for attention, I hoped it would be found, but after a while it became my secret high. Then my mom found out and started yelling at me about it, and I almost laughed in her face. Now my parents are talking about taking me to a shrink, but they don’t seem to realize that I won’t talk and I won’t stop. I love my scars; I think they are the most beautiful things about me. At first I just used a serrated knife, because it cut easier without as much pain, then I went to a regular blade, and now I’m at razors, safety pins, push pins, and other pointed objects. I don’t cut as much anymore as I carve. I have a lovely scar that says “escape” on my arm (that’s from when I was thinking about a boyfriend I was about to break up with), and among the normal, boring, straight scars I have the words “hate” “pain” “disturbed” (my favorite band), a couple of anarchy signs and a flower (my personal one that I have drawn since 6th grade).
I slowly placed the razorblade to my wrist, and began to cut. I didn’t think about if it would hurt, or how much I would bleed. Or even how many people would notice and care. The cut didn’t look any different than a cat scratch, or a paper cut. I was cutting because I didn’t have any way to deal with all the pain and suffering that I had been going through. That and I didn’t feel as if I was alive. So being able to cut myself and see the blood and feel the sharp quick moments of pain I knew that I was alive and this whole charade was not just a dream. Soon I was addicted to cutting. I was getting treatment for it, but no one except for a few friends and my sister knew that I was still cutting. School is almost out and I have made at least a total of 230 cutts on my body from a razorblade.