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Rachel
Copyright, Rachel
Its hard to say when my self harm began. For as long as I can remember, I've always had this incredible rage inside me. Whenever something annoyed me, or upset me, i felt like i was going to explode. For a while i thought i was insane, quite literally. My parents just thought I was a 'difficult child'. I tried to explain the rage i felt, and they would brush it off as a 'phase'. So i guess i just thought it was part of who i was.
Then, one day, something irritated me to the point of despair, and i remember slamming my hand against the wall in anger. And, just for a second, everything else faded. All i could concentrate on was the pain.
Afterwards, i felt strangely calm.
However, i guess i didnt really make a connection, as events like that didn't occur again for several years, until i was in high school, when i was bullied badly. At break times I used to go the the toilets and cry. I became so frustrated with my weakness, I'd slap myself on my face, almost as if to punish myself for, as I thought, being pathetic.
However, the bullying ended as I left school. So I stopped the slapping.
For a while, I was truely happy, until, out of no-where, i was hit with depression. I started to have panic attacks which left me disassociated with reality, and myself. I felt as if i was two seperate people. I was away from college for a long time, and my friends drifted away from me. My parents, Im sure, grew tired of me, and very much had a 'pull yourself together' attitude. I felt so numb. Until, that is, i one day drew blood from a thorn in the garden. I felt strangely 'real' again. And from that moment on, whenever i felt 'strange', and separated from reality, i would find a way to draw blood. Almost as if to make sure i was real, alive. They were only little scratches, done usually by running the point of nail scissors over my skin.
And, as with the bullying, the depression eventually subsided. However, i was left with much greater pain. Knowing i couldn't rely on who i had thought to be 'friends', and, perhaps what hurt me most of all, my parents. I felt worthless. 'True friendship' was an alien concept to me, and my parents were there only when i had gotten a good grade in college, or had some achievment to 'make them proud'. To add to this, i had entered into a relationship with a guy who was also depressed. Perhaps im just weak, but i couldn't handle it. He told me that if i ever left him, he'd kill himself, and i knew he would. My life was a void of emptiness. I had nobody to turn to, talk to, confinde in. Thats when the cutting started. I dont enjoy it and it hurts like hell. I dont do it for attention and i dont like the sight of blood. So why do i do it? I suppose i just want some kind of real manifestation of the pain im suffering inside. Yet, i'll never show the scars to anyone. I guess that cutting is the only thing that has ever been there for me...