The first time I cut myself was when I was 11. I still have the scars to prove it. I stopped cutting for about 4 months and then one night I was in my room and I had just moved things around and I heard this crunching sound so I looked under my bed and noticed there was a bunch of glass on the floor because the bed broke a framed picture I had. So I have no idea how I got the idea but I took the glass and made three cuts. It was the most shocking thing I ever felt. I thought it would hurt. It didn’t, as sick as it may sound. I love the way it made me feel. That was about a year ago. Now no one knows about my secret other than my two incredible friends. I want to tell someone so bad I just don’t know how. I’m only 12! And I really don’t want this to be a lifelong thing.
I just started cutting like, in April. And now it’s June. I started off using finger nail clippers. And then I started using more painful things. I’ve pretty much used everything in the house. Knives, razor blades, safety pins. Anything. And when I can’t get to anything, I usually just bite myself, or scratch myself until I tear the skin. I stopped doing it on my arm and now I do them on my thigh. It helps me forget about the bad things that have happened. I just watch the blood come up to the surface. I’ve tried to stop, but I look at all my scars, and I still have that memory. But under each cut lies a story, a buried story.