The Hell I Live

Copyright, Adrienne

First things first: Only read this if you’re safe. If you’re not, then don’t read it. Simple as that. Well maybe not, but on with the show.

When I was around nine, I started to hate myself. Pretty young. When I was eleven, I was diagnosed with BPD? and withdrew from people (which I hated and still kinda do). I also had very severe depression? (and still do) but then I didn’t show it. When I just turned thirteen, I started cutting. The first time I did it was when my parents were bitching about something, and I went to my room. I took out a pocket knife and just started quickly cutting at my arms. The blade was dull, so it just left some red marks. Most people found out from TV or something. I didn’t. I found out on my own. I did pretty good and stopped for about four months. Then, things were hell. I did my first suicide attempt (I have twelve total) and cut really bad with a safety pin on my arms. My parents weren’t very happy about it and just yelled at me for doing it, and so what does the bimbo do? She does it again. And again. I’ve thought about suicide every day for the past year, but I don’t know why I don’t do it. After cutting became headbutting. It made me so dizzy and tired, but I liked it. Yes I’m strange. Then, one night, I found a razor and slashed at my arm. It cut about 6 cm deep and I knew I needed stitches. I made up a lie about how I snagged my arm on a wall or something to my parents, and I went to the hospital. They knew I had cut myself. I did pretty good until January. I was unbelievably depressed and feeling suicidal, I just locked myself in my room and didn’t come out. Another reason why my life sucks so much, was from my stupid as hell school (which I left from, halleluja). We had more homework than the kid down the street in college. Anyways, my parents let me start the fires to keep them warm (this is in the furnace). I had to use a lighter to start it with and I soon ended up burning my skin off myself. Yes, I’m sick and twisted. But then I used a potato peeler to slice off my skin — only once. I stopped SI’ing again for about two months. Then I grabbed my trusty pin and cut about twenty times on my upper arm (like right above the elbow). Around this time I was diagnosed with OCD?, a case of bipolar disorder, and a case of ADD.? I also cut almost every day. In may, I attempted suicide again and found myself at the mental hospital. I didn’t like it there much, but I was happy (go figure). On the first day, I had to be put in the time-out room, and it didn’t help that I said I was gonna kill myself. But I sucked up and said I was mad. There, they diagnosed me with the highest thing of depression. When I got back from the hospital, no one had known where I was for four days. I told them, and they laughed. So what does the idiot do, she cuts with glass. And punches out a lightbulb. Well, not everyone laughed, but most did. Someone even called me dumb for attempting suicide. Yeah, thanks a lot. Five days after I got out, I cut uncontrollably. I also found out that some good friends of mine are going through the same SI‘ing hell as me, which in a way is good because we can be like hippies on hash and help each other out. To this day I still cut and think suicidally. But now I have noticed there is a very small light at the end of a tunnel, but to me it is closing up.


Copyright, Adrienne

My name is Adrienne, I’m a seventeen year old from Canada. I’ve been self harming since grade eight (now finishing grade twelve) at least once a week. Doing things from as little as forcing myself into scalding hot bath water. To as serious as smoking hard street drugs (for the purpose of selfharm and eventually addiction), cutting my skin with serrated knives, rubbing a comb over it repeatedly till the skin wears away. I had stopped for a year until I met some friends who showed me their scars, it pulled me right back into hurting myself. In the last few months it had gotten really bad, it seemed every time I had got to cut deeper so that it was worth doing at all. For me and my justification for it, it’s similiar to the romans of old who bled themselves to be free of their demons. Just eight weeks ago my head was getting heavier with the ideas of becoming eighteen, not being able to graduate because of a technicality and having to move out on my own (generally you can’t stay in a grouphome at age eighteen). I decided to take a bath and to ask staff for a razor to shave. I lay in the hot water removing the blades from plastic with a safety pin and started to make small cuts just randomly. It’s kinda like maintenance on a drug habit, it’s not so thrilling anymore, but mandatory. I was cutting my breasts, my legs, inner thigh, legs anywhere you name it knowing that nothing too bad could actually happen. I worked lastly on my wrist and after about nine cuts had left a part unscathed and sticking out with a blue tinge underneath. I sliced it happily down my arm, not across. It took me quite some time to realize that I’d hit an artery this time and it was serious. I was so shocked as it spurted to my heart beat so I stood up to grab a towel to tourniquet it. That night after the blood had been cleaned up I realized just how serious things were getting, because next time I had to cut deeper, right?


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