My Story

Copyright Alixx

What people don’t understand is that I’m not a sadist. Believe it or not, I’m not a masochist. I don’t revel in a stubbed toe. I don’t become aroused by a baseball to the head. And I certainly don’t want to get the razor out at a party and start drawing the blood of my friends. The pull of self-injury lies in its prefix: Self. It’s about control. It’s about total simulated power over your nervous system. It’s about hijacking your adrenaline and turning sad or empty into a rush. I hurt myself, usually, because I wanted to feel in control about what was happening. The pain inside of me was put there by other people. And I hated it. I wanted to cause the pain to myself. Being in control of what went on in my life, was hard to do. I was a SI teen for about four years. I can’t recall just how or why I got so addicted. I was eleven and I remember biting my wrist until it left marks. Then some days I would feel worthless and I would burn myself in the shower. I didn’t think it was a problem. I rarely did it. I guess it was 7th grade I found my first razor blade. I didn’t slash my arm right away. I took it a step at a time. I would carve a small one inch slit. And would stare and pull it apart to watch the small drops of blood come to the surface. And it was so beautiful against my pale skin. Then I would try for longer slits. And carve squares, names, symbols. I only cut on my wrist and my stomach. I didn’t have a connection with cutting and emotional pain, it was just a hobby. I liked the blood, it made me feel alive. Then I was slipping into a depression, and soon noticed that cutting was the best way to make me happy. It was like, I wanted people to see the cuts and know I was so hurt inside, but I didn’t want any opinions, I didn’t want help. I wasn’t looking to kill myself at all. I was just controlling the pain in my life. I would often be triggered by my past. Mainly one incident. When I was eight or nine I was molested by an uncle. The whole family thought I was a liar, except my mom, who was also abused by an uncle. So to make a long story short, I don’t have much family from my moms side that will look at me. The night I was molested triggered a lot of my cutting. I went to court after it all. And we tried to get him convicted. I was in my cousins bed. Not really asleep, just had my eyes closed. And the next thing I knew somebody was touching me, I wanted to scream, I wanted to jump out of the bed and run away. I wanted to be somewhere else, someone else. I couldn’t open my eyes. He was standing over the bed, I could feel him staring at me, I knew who it was. It felt like it lasted forever. I was so desperate, and not in control. The fact that I never opened my eyes made me cut many times. I felt like a stupid piece of shit for not opening my eyes. He couldn’t be convicted, because I never saw him. I went to like two counsellors after the fact. It wasn’t by choice, but the state recommends it. The lady in the brightly colored rooms with so many toys. She video taped me and held a doll to my watered eyes and would ask me where I was touched. I was embarassed. I didn’t want to live anymore knowing I had to deal with the pain my whole life. But the pain does get better. The other lady I went to, I barely remember. Just that she told me it wasn’t my fault about a hundred times. As if I walked into my cousins house and shouted. OK, someone molest me tonight. I knew it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it. I couldn’t stop it from happening. Another counsellor I went to about a year ago. Just for depression, she started telling me this bullshit, like, maybe shut the door next time you’re in somebody’s house. Maybe locking the door. Maybe being careful of whose house you sleep over at. I wanted to scream at her. “No eight year old kid should have to lock the door, they shouldn’t be worried that thier family is going to touch their bodies, they shouldn’t think about that shit!” It was like she was blaming me for not taking these steps of hers. Like I’m going to walk into each house and worry about those steps, much less the house my family lives in. No kid should have to go through it. But I’m getting off the subject. My cutting was getting worse. I got two of my close friends into it. They did it for fun and for the attention. One of my friends would carve on me, at my request. Like designs into my back. Then some of the people around me would ask me to stop. It never seemed like a problem to me because it wasn’t to kill myself, only to get control. I never stopped for anybody, except my current boyfriend. I know the word boyfriend just sounds like trouble. But I really love him, and I know he loves me. Everyone who puts their story up here could never tell every moment of it. Just the important thing. And I haven’t the time to include everything. But if you want to IM me or e-mail. I wouldn’t mind talking or helping anyone who has been in my situation.


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