They tried to help

Copyright Amanda

I’m only fourteen and I know thats young to SI but I just thought you might want to hear what my friends did to try and help me.

My two best friends, we’ll call thm Jessi and Brennan, found out I cut when Jessi grabbed my wrist and I said that it hurt and they saw. They had known for about two or three months when I had SI’ed for about a year already. One day in school they convinced me to go to my school counsellor. Well I went and once I showed her, we’ll call her Miss Summers, I just started crying and my friends hugged me and said it was for my own good. After they left, Miss Summers asked me why I cut and I told her it was because of my stepdad and how we got kicked out of our house and now had to life with my grandparents. (My mom’s parents.) I told her how he would always yell at me and sometimes he hit me and I was young so I blamed myself. That’s why I started and of course she had to tell my mom and she made me show my mom and my mom started to cry and we both cried because of what I did to myself. Miss Summers told us of some things we could do and some doctors we could see, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to stop on my own or have my family and friends help me stop.

To this day I haven’t stopped. But my mom and grandma know and check my wrist every now and then. They haven’t seen any cuts yet but I know they will check soon and they will find some.

I love my friends for trying to help even though it didn’t get me to stop. I thank them every time I talk to them.

I hope this story will help you tell at least one person. That one person may change your life forever.

My Story

Copyright Amanda

My name is Amanda, and I have been cutting for about a year and a half now. I’m not exactly the kind of person most people think of when they think of self-mutilation. I mean, I’m smart, I get fantastic grades, and I seem to be perfectly happy most of the time. Every once in a while, my pain will shine through, but only the barest glimmer of what I really feel inside.

My parents divorced a week after my fifth birthday. My mother is addicted to crystal meth; my father is an alcoholic. My mother married a drug dealer, but I can’t remember much about him; all I know is that he is the one person on this planet that I truly hate, but I don’t know why. I dealt with all of this for about fifteen years, but then, when I was a sophomore in high school, the first person I ever allowed myself to get close to graduated. For the first time, I sank into depression. I had never felt anything like it; I felt alone, scared, and, to top it all off, one of my friends attempted suicide the night of graduation, leaving me feeling more alone than ever. I dealt with this as well, however. Then my junior year started. Anyone who has made it that far in high school knows how stressful it becomes, if you are in advanced classes and a ‘smart cookie’. I had so many different people telling me what to do with my life. My mother, after more than a year of silence, called and told me she had cancer again and that she wanted me to come live with her and take care of her (I turned it down). My father, who is in the United States Air Force, redoubled his efforts to make me join the military, as a commissioned officer. My English teacher was telling me to go to Berkeley, my brother was telling me to go to USC, my counsellor was telling me to go to CSU Long Beach, my other brother was telling me to take a year off and travel the world after graduation, the assistant principal was telling me to go to Harvard, my best friend told me to go to Yale, and, since I was in ROTC, I got more ‘Join the military!’ I was taking advanced placement courses, and the work kept piling up. I never seemed to get anywhere with it.

One night, as I was taking care of the house while my father and stepmother went on one of their drinking sprees, my father came in screaming at me about something — I don’t quite remember what. All I remember is that I couldn’t handle it anymore. I raced up to my room and slammed the door shut; grabbed a pen and paper and just scribbled. But it didn’t help. I was desperate. I had to get rid of all the tension somehow… but how? I caught sight of my scissors sitting on my desk. What would happen if I just… grazed it across my arm? Would it help? I decided I would try. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing, so I cut myself for the first time in a place that no one ever saw on me — my upper arm. After the first cut, I couldn’t stop. It actually helped me! By the time I finished cutting my arm looked as though I had just tried to give a rabid cat a bath. And that’s where my cover story comes in.

I was able to hide my cuts for over a year; but I eventually ran out of room on my upper arm. So I progressed to my forearm; the place where people can actually see the scars when you wear a short-sleeved shirt. No one caught me for a little over a month, but then someone saw and, although I know they were serious, tried to make a joke out of it. Immediately, I said, “oh, that was just my cat. He’s really mean, and I had to give him a bath yesterday.”

That’s my story. I’ve tried to stop since then, but I can’t. Although I know cutting doesn’t really help me any, it is the only way I can think of to get rid of the tension. I am not the classic, ‘oh, I hate life’ burnout person. I have a 4.2 GPA. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have pain.


Copyright Amanda

My name is Amanda. I am almost seventeen years old and started consciously cutting November 26, 2004, almost a year ago. I come from a strong loving family and extended family. My parents are together and have been together for thirty something years, but married for twenty-one. I have a brother and many aunts, uncles, and cousins that love me very much. But there was always something that seemed like it was missing. My mom used to work afternoons so after school I would go to the babysitters house, then my dad would pick me up after he got out of work. He made dinner for me, he helped me take baths or shower, we would watch TV, he helped me with my homework, and he put me to bed. My mom wasn’t there, ever. Then when I got into 7th grade my mom quit her job to be a stay at home mom for when my brother started school (he started kindergarten when I was in 7th grade). It was then that my mom tried starting a mother-daughter relationship with me and I was resisting it. I didn’t want to let her in my life because she hadn’t been there. She tried to start doing things with me more and she came to everything I was involved in at school. That thing that was missing before had turned into being there continually and smothering me. That is when I started having thoughts about hurting myself. I am not one that anyone would suspect something like this to happen to me. I am a varsity cheerleader and have been for four years and before that I was a junior high cheerleader for two years. In junior high I also played volleyball and track. I talk to everyone at school, I talk to the people of the town. There are people at my school that think they want to be me. Basically, I am one of the biggest role models for the younger kids in my town. I hate it. The pressure to do it is something that is so hard to cope with. So I started SI’ing.

I always liked to make friendship bracelets with the six strand sewing string. I used to pull them so tight with my one hand along my finger that in the crease my finger would get raw and I loved that feeling. At the time I didn’t know that was SI’ing. I did that for years probably about seven or eight. Then last November I wanted to feel some sort of pain. I had kind of ignored the smothering and kept to myself at home. At school I talked to my friends like everything was OK, but inside I was burning to tell them what was wrong. I could never find a way to. So I kept doing the thing with the string. Then last year I got captain of the cheerleading squad as a junior. I was still only fifteen years old and my coach was putting me in charge of things she should have been in charge of. Or at least put someone over eighteen in charge of. She gave me so much responsibility that it was hard for me to handle. So in November I found a friend. A razor blade. I cut every day. I had to do it somewhere that no one would see it. The inside of my ankle, below my sock line. It was the perfect place. I could go to cheerleading, wear t-shirts, wear shorts and skirts, no one would know. Until I didn’t wear socks at a friends house. By then I had scars and I had a bandaid on a fresh cut. She asked me what it was there for and I quickly told her I had cut myself shaving and she believed it. I cut everyday until the end of February. I finally stopped for a while. Then my friend and I got in a fight and I began again. For a few weeks. Then it was the end of April. I stopped and was cut free all summer long. Even as the school year began I was clean. Things started getting bad again. A guy friend and I had some things happen between us and that made me sad again. I started cutting again, this time more lines, in different directions. It gives me a relief like no other. I don’t know how to stop and at this point I dint really want to. I just want people to understand what I am going through and why I do this. Then maybe I won’t want to do it anymore.

My Story

Copyright Amanda

My name is Amanda and I cut myself. There, I said it. For a while I wanted to stop. And I did for three whole months. For a while I wanted to dig deeper and find other ways to cope. I wanted to be well. I wanted to say I used to cut, but not anymore. Unfortunately I pulled the plug on that when last Friday I ripped open another razor and made two cuts. Then last night I went on a rampage. Eighteen cuts. All at once. My wrist now is crimson flesh. And you know what the sick part is? I like it. That’s why I did it. To see the cuts. And for attention. I know I have a problem, but I don’t think I want help quite yet. I don’t know if I’m ready for it yet. I just felt like writing that. Writing helps me instead of cutting. Although I’ll probably still do it. If anyone ever wants to talk, I’m here. I may be psycho myself, but I’m a great listener and problem solver.

Welcome to my Life

Copyright, Amanda

I’m fifteen, nearly sixteen. I’ve been cutting for almost five years now. It all stared when I moved to Nevada with my mother when I was eleven. I had been thinking about death way before that. I would have to say I started thinking about death when I was seven or eight. I use to write ‘I hate my life. I want to die. Kill me’ on pieces of paper. I would literally cover the whole paper with those sayings. I guess you can say I didn’t have the best home life with my mother. She didn’t treat me the way I wanted to be treated, and she didn’t give me the attention I needed. Now I’m not saying I wrote those things for attention, I wrote them because that’s how I felt. I’m the middle child, so I didn’t think I was very wanted and cared about in my house. It felt to me that I wasn’t loved, and that I was left out all the time. Basically I felt that I didn’t fit in anywhere. So when we moved to Nevada my thoughts about death became more serious. I heard about suicide and I was thinking about it, but I wasn’t really serious about killing myself. That’s when I started cutting. It would take away my emotional pain. I never did it enough to die, but enough to feel the pain, feel the release. A year later I OD’ed on Ibuprofen. My counsellor at school found out and I had to go to a hospital. I got blood work done and then I had to wait to talk to a psychiatrist. So I told her that I was sorry and that I wouldn’t do it again. Well three months after that I went to go live with my father in New York. I was stressed out there, so I started cutting again. I was going to counselling there so I told my counsellor that when I went home, that I was going to go to my grandparents house and shoot myself with my grandfather’s gun. So I got put into a psychiatric ward for a month and they put me on Zoloft, then I got discharged and I went to go back to live with my dad. I started cutting again and I told my dad that I wanted to go back and live with my mom. He wasn’t too happy, but he had no choice. I went back to Nevada to live with my mom (again) and well I guess you can say it only got worse. I was still cutting, that was a part of my everyday life. I couldn’t stop but that wasn’t the problem. I was feeling suicidal again and I OD’ed again, but this time I OD’ed on a full bottle of Zoloft. My step dad found out and called an ambulance. On the way to the hospital I had to drink charcoal (which was disgusting). When I got to the hospital, they had to take my blood like last time. I had to talk to a psychiatrist again and this time she said I had to go to a psychiatric ward. I was in there for a month and then I got discharged. Everything was going good for a while, and then I started cutting again. I just couldn’t stop, it was an unbreakable habit. I also started to hang out with the wrong people. I started doing drugs and drinking. Well my mom found out and let’s just say I didn’t like what happened after that so I called my grandparents and asked if I could come live with them. They said OK, but I had to behave. So within two weeks I was on a plane to New York. I knew that living with my grandparents I had to go to a catholic high school, which I did not like at all. I started at the catholic right away and the first day, after school, I went up in my room and cut. I hated that school. I started to cut on a day-to-day basis, and I did it at school too. I brought safety pins to school and during class I would stick them into my arms. Well they found out and after being there (the catholic high school) for only two weeks I was sent to another hospital. I stayed there for two weeks and got discharged and I got to go to a public high school. But I still wasn’t better. I was starting to use sharper objects. I used my grandfather’s pocketknife and sliced up my whole left wrist, it wasn’t deep enough to get stitches, but it bleed a lot. I liked it though and that’s all that matter. I didn’t care what was going to happen to me and I didn’t care about anyone, especially myself. After two weeks at that school I got sent to the hospital again because I couldn’t stop cutting. That’s all I wanted to do. Well after being there for a month (the hospital) I was so fed up with everything I started hurting myself again, in the hospital. I couldn’t cut my wrist, so I would steal the salt packets from the food trays, and before I went to bed I would ask for ice. Then I would go into my bathroom and burn my thighs with the salt and ice. They found out of course and put me on a one-on-one (being watched all the time). I got discharged a month later, but not to home. I went to a long-term hospital, and I’m still there today. I get to come home every weekend, but I live there on the weekdays and I go to school there. I will be getting discharged soon, hopefully, I’m just waiting on day treatment (a place where I can go to school and get the counselling that I need), but I’ll be living at home where I belong.

My Life As I Know It

Copyright Amanda

My name is Amanda. I started cutting myself when I was twelve years old. It started when I was spending the night with a friend and we were talking about carving our boyfriend’s initials into our legs. From that point I would carve every boyfriend I ever had’s initials into my leg because it felt good. Then I stopped when I was about fifteen or so. I married at nineteen and had a son. Then I went to the doctor one day and was told I was going to have to have my gallbladder removed. The day I went into the hospital for the surgery started the time in my life when mental torment was an understatement. The doctor who took my gallbladder out cut through my small intestines and didn’t repair it. He just closed me up and left me like that. I went home the next day and then about three days later I was back in the ER with bowel coming out of my stomach literally. I was finally sent to a better hospital to get better. Because I had septicaemia, pneumonia, multi-organ failure, septic shock, and peritonitis the doctors thought it would be best to put me in a drug induced coma and on a ventilator so my body could rest enough to heal. While I was in the coma I became delusional. I thought I was being tortured in seven different ways in front of my two year old son. I was cut, burned, shot, had parts of my body ripped out by family. I saw heaven and I saw hell. I thought I gave birth to this morbid looking alien creature. It was awful. I witnessed the end of days and when the angels actually came to me and asked me if I would go with them I said no I wanted to stay with my family. I thought the nurses were trying to kill me. I witnessed my own autopsy and funeral among other things. When I was finally brought out of the coma I realised just what had happened. Then I was sent home to recover with my stomach left open to watch for infection. It had to be packed and cleaned twice a day by a licensed nurse. It was at that time that I had learnt that my husband had cheated on me while I was in the hospital dying. He cheated with our best friend’s cousin who lived next door to us. Then three months later I went back into the hospital to get my stomach closed. About four months later I was so overwhelmed by what had happened that my mental status was all whacked out. I met a girl on the internet and believe it or not I fell for her. My dad gave me his credit card number so I could purchase her a bus ticket to my state so we could be together. Well I used the card a little to much. I had realised then that I was a lesbian and I was comfortable with that. Then my mom and dad came and took my two year old son from me and I was left all alone. I began cutting myself again. First I cut my arms with a kitchen knife. Deep enough to need stitches but I never went to the ER. That same day I made multiple cuts on my legs, feet, arms, and hands. It eased the pain inside so much to do that. My girlfriend left because she thought I was cheating on her. After she left I went into a psychiatric hospital to try and get help. I was there for a week and then released on multiple meds. Then about a week later I went out of town with my father to try and make some money. While I was with him I stole over a thousand dollars from his cash box. Then when I got back I was hurting inside so badly that I sliced my arms about ten times. I let them bleed for about twenty minutes before I cleaned them. I felt so much better. Then the next day the police came to my home and arrested me. I spent twelve hours in a holding cell. Then I learnt the charges against me. I was booked on twenty-two felony counts of credit card fraud. My bail was set at $100,000 and I called my mother at 5 a.m. and was crying begging her to come get me. Of course she would not come get me because she was the one who pressed the charges on me. I spent four months in jail and my parents could see that I had changed so they used a property bond and got me out. My father went to the judge and had to pay money to get the charges dropped. After that experience one year ago I have moved into an apartment, got my son back, met Mary, the love of my life, and started going to school to become a nurse. Even though suicide and self injury still come to mind when I get in a bind in any way, I have learnt that it is not the answer and I should just try to leave the situation for a while. I still break down from time to time but Mary knows of my past because she is a self injurer as well but she helps me and I help her through tough times. We will make it and succeed somehow.

Ex Cutter

Copyright, Amanda

My name is Amanda and I live in Texas. I used to have a real problem with grades (still do), my relationship with my mom, just everything was screwed up. I had problems expressing myself especially when I was angry about something. Some people scream in a pillow, some people play video games. I cut myself. My upper arms. I couldn’t wear short sleeved shirts to school. And in athletics I couldn’t roll up my sleeves. Whenever something was stressing me out I wouldn’t keep it bottled up, I would go home and cut. I cut myself about 7-8 times a day. I liked the satisfaction of watching myself bleed and being able to have such a terrible awful secret. My favourite place to cut was in the shower because my skin would get really soft and I would be able to cut slowly and watch the blood start to come out without it stinging as much. But then I started softball and I had practise every day after school and I realised that I was less stressed after a couple of hours of knocking and throwing the crap out of a ball. It went from cutting my self 7-8 times a day to maybe 3 times a week. I found myself too busy. Then my mom and I started to get along OK. I ran out of excuses to hate my life and myself. My coach knows about my cutting and I did stop. I haven’t cut in a couple of months and I’m happy as a teenager could possibly get and I don’t regret stopping. Softball season is over and I still haven’t gone back to it. At first I thought it would be hard but it wasn’t. I have a journal and I talk to my mom a lot more. Or if I’m stressed really bad I’ll get a cigarette but that’s rarely. So all in all, I think I’m going to be OK after all.


Copyright, Amanda

I’m fourteen and I’ve been SI’ing for a few months now, but cutting myself for about one month.

Some people may believe that I have no problem at all, since I live the typical “girl next door” kind of life. Kinda cute to some people, lots of friends, good grades, boyfriend and a nice big family, with both mom and dad. But one thing is wrong with this picture… I cut myself. “So why do you cut yourself if your life is as perfect as you say?” You may ask me. Well, sometimes I cut because I’m stressed, angry, lonely or even when I’m bored. But most of the time, it’s because of my low self esteem. Sometimes I have “good days” when everything’s right. The hair is perfect, I’m feeling extremely happy and everything just fits. And sometimes I just wished that my life wasn’t as “perfect” and I just want to stab myself because everything’s wrong. Most of the time, I simply hate everything on me. Some people may think that I’m superficial.

Well, I’m not. I’m just extremely picky about myself. I don’t really care about the looks of others, because I have been raised to love people for who they are, not how they look like. But somehow, I can’t stop paying attention how I present myself or how I look to others. This is a big issue for me.

The last months have been total chaos. Someone kind of close to me died and I broke up with a boyfriend.

I was feeling down but not really doing anything about it. But when I fell in love again, everything was perfect, if I wouldn’t have fallen for my best friend’s ex boyfriend. He fell for me too. And we started dating.

My best friend couldn’t handle it so she left me. Came back, and left me again. I was extremely sad and started cutting myself. I did it several days in a row, but then stopped.

I was finally coming back to reality, and started focusing on my lovely boyfriend. We had the best time ever. But then, two weeks later, my best friend came back in the picture again. She started to hate my boyfriend and turned some of his friends against him. She kept reminding me of how mean I’ve been to her, and I was started to get sad and lonely again. Then I just lost it. I fell back into the trap again and started cutting myself over and over again…

Now I cut whenever I feel like I need it. I’ve told a few of my friends, who are trying to make me stop. But the thing is, I don’t want to stop. It’s like my comfort somehow. My boyfriend is the best. We have the best time when we hang out. When I’m with him it’s like everything goes away. I feel happy. Someday I will stop cutting myself. Not today… But someday. I promise.


Copyright, Amanda

My name is Amanda and I’m five days away from my twenty-first birthday. I have been hurting myself since I was six, so about fifteen years give or take. At the time that I started I didn’t have words for my feelings or even knew why I felt them. All I knew was that I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think and that I just had to get it out of myself. So I would bang my head against the wall harder and harder, faster and faster until I no longer felt that way.

I don’t remember much from my childhood and the things I do remember are the things I want to forget like I remember going to the hospital a lot for “migraines” and being hated in school. I remember being spit at and being called a lesbo but I can’t really remember birthday parties or family outings. My mother says that I was a good kid; well behaved, did what I was told to do most of the time and I guess I take her word for it.

When I was thirteen I graduated to cutting. I never decided it was something I should do, I just did it and it was the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. I remember thinking, the first time, can I actually do this but when I put the razor to my arm that question no longer seemed to matter and after I had stopped I remember feeling, as I do most times, so sedated. At the time I didn’t realise that cutting isn’t banging that even though the after effect is the same, being that the pain is dulled for a little while, the physical ramifications are a lot more severe (at least for me). But after a while no other form of release could sustain my anger and sadness. So I started wearing long sleeved shirts and jeans all the time. My demeanour started to change I could no longer feign interest or happiness when people would talk to me so I started taking drugs. I wanted to stop feeling because maybe if I was completely void of emotion I wouldn’t need to cut anymore. But even through Percocet, Vicodine, speed, weed, nitrous, Valium, whiskey and vodka I was still cutting, only the cutting became more severe. Just a word to the wise, not including me, never cut when you can’t feel your skin. The aftermath of that was enough to make me take a step back and look at what I was doing to myself.

So far I have lived through two suicide attempts, countless stitches, and almost having a drug overdose. Sometimes I think “there’s gotta be a reason why I’m still alive and I can’t die until I find out what it is,” and that keeps me from going into old habits. I haven’t cut in six months and it’s hard for me to believe that it’s been that long. I can’t say that I won’t ever cut again because I know that I’m not that strong. Whenever I get really upset and I feel like I’m about to relapse I force myself to go hang around friends or talk to someone on the phone. I still drink and smoke cigarettes and occasionally (very rarely) will indulge myself with a couple tokes off the bong. But I work at it little by little. I don’t know if I’ll ever be one hundred percent healthy but all I can do is try.

No Title

Copyright, Amanda

I’m 15. I’ve been cutting for 3 years. When your innocence is stolen by a loved one, you aren’t quite sure if it was your fault, especially at the tender age of 12. I felt I deserved to be punished. Now I crave it. I need the pain. I yearn to see the blood drip, ooze, and slide down from a fresh wound. And I get an eerie satisfaction out of the sight, the feel, the thought that I am bleeding for me, not for anyone else! I love cutting. It hasn’t ruined my life at all, I see my scars as beautiful! They are marks of love for my body and showing self discipline. My friends do it and if they don’t they know I am not trying to kill, but only bleed away my sins.

Stay Sane

Copyright, Amanda

I was sitting in math class in the 5th grade. We had to draw a circle with one of those compass type things. Mine slipped and nicked the edge of my finger, and right then I had an idea. I quietly slipped my arm under the desk and with my other hand I held the compass. I pressed as hard and as slowly as I could, onto my wrist. It felt so good, it lasted so long.

I’m now 15 years old and soon to be a freshman in high school. I’ve been cutting ever since. My mom found out when I was 14, we were in a dressing room and she noticed a star-shaped scar on my leg, she said “that couldn’t have been a cat, it’s in a distinct shape.” I still remember denying it, and in the car I admitted to it. Soon after, *sigh* I was taken to a “Psychologist” although I refer to her as my shrink. She doesn’t help, I walk in with a fake smile and pretend it’s all OK. I’ve already been diagnosed with depression, I have all the symptoms.

I guess everything has gotten slightly better. Everyone says I have nothing to complain about, and so many people are worse off than me. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I go to the district called Upper St. Clair. I’ve lived here all of my life. I live in a nice house, nice neighbourhood. Good area, no trouble. Then again that means, no excitement, no city… No nothing. My parents don’t let me do a god-given thing, they’ve always treated me like a 5 year old. Maybe 3.

I guess I just got sick of it all. Sick of everything. How everyone perceives me as so “different.” Not that it matters, but it seems like my parents and my sister just can’t accept me. I’m never good enough, I never do anything right, and everything is always my fault. If I’m having a good day, someone SOMEHOW always finds SOMEWAY to bring me down. One way or another.

One thing I’ve always known is how much I complain, and how emotional I am. That’s me. Every day is a battle for me, to contain myself. To wait until I get started in high school and see if I can make it. Sometimes I don’t know if I can make it until tomorrow.

I’ve thought about suicide a million times but never actually tried it. The only thing I tried was trying to slit my veins open on my wrist, that didn’t work. All I have are scars.

I still haven’t quit cutting for good. Every once and a while it gets the best of me…

Time for bed now. Let’s see if I can make it another day.


Copyright, Amanda

I would like to say how touching some of the stories were to me. I am 14 and have been cutting for a while and I would like to share my story with you. Well here it is:

My name is Amanda and if you were to look at me you would think that I was just a normal school girl. I’m 14, average build with dark hair and dark eyes. I like going into town and playing basketball. But there is one thing that stands out about me, my right arm is covered in scars. They vary in size. The truth behind them is that since I was 12 I have been cutting myself.

It first started when I was in year seven. It was two years after my step-dad had left me, my mum and my sister. My mum had been dating a guy called Andrew for a while. I really liked him but for some reason my sister didn’t feel comfortable around him. Perhaps she was the only one who knew that he was not right for my mum. As it happened, her feelings were yet to be proved right. Mum and Andrew used to argue quite a bit. The arguments were never violent and never in front of me or my sister. Then one night they were having a really bad row, I hated it. I sat in my room crying as they screamed at each other. Then after a while mum told him to leave. He wasn’t happy about it but he did. He walked out of the house and turned his car around. As he was about to drive out of our road he stopped. He came around the back of the house. My sister and I were sat on the stairs very upset. Andrew got to the back door and smashed one of the glass panes on it. He put his arm through and opened the door. My mum was screaming at him to get out, he picked up his cigarettes and once again left the house. We heard the car screech away and we thought that was it. But we weren’t that lucky. He came to the front door. He started banging to be let in, but mum was having none of it. So he started talking to me and my sister. He kept asking us to let him in. But we ignored him. He refused to leave. Then he picked up one of the terracotta pots, which we had bought in the Middle East, and threw it at the door. I clung to my sister and we both screamed. Mum was in hysterics on the phone to the police as Andrew came through the door that had been smashed down.

My sister had to take the phone off mum, as she was making no sense. Andrew was now sat in the living room quite calm, but refusing to leave. I had no idea what to do. So, in my dressing gown I ran next door and banged on my neighbour’s door.

Her dad answered and I just burst into tears. I stayed there until Andrew was taken away in a police car.

That night I could not sleep. My mind was buzzing, upset and confused I had no one to talk to. I sat in my room crying, tears of anger and tears of misery. I felt like I would explode, from all the emotions contained in my body. Then I saw my penknife, it was just sitting on the shelf in my room. I didn’t think about what I was about to do, I just did it.

That evening I did three small cuts just below my wrist. Seeing the blood flow out of my arm was like seeing all my anger flow away. It was such a relief. I’m not sure why it was, but it felt like I could relieve my emotional pain by inflicting physical pain.

That was the first time I had ever cut myself, but it was only the beginning. I only told one person about what I did, and that was my close friend Emily. I told her because she was the only person I thought I could trust. She was really helpful, she didn’t judge me, she just listened.

After that I cut myself when I got a build up of emotions that I couldn’t control. At first this didn’t happen very often, in fact hardly at all. But then I started being bullied. That really got to me. I used to cry myself to sleep most nights. Then one night I saw that penknife again, all the memories came flooding back. Memories of the emotions and relief. So I did it again, then three more times that week. So for a while I wore long sleeves to make sure no one saw my cuts.

Soon I was cutting more and more regularly. After a while my sister clicked to what was going on, so she asked me about it. But I didn’t want to talk to her. So I didn’t.

It has carried on like this for a while now, I still cut but my family doesn’t mention it.

When I get asked about the scars on my arm and I tell people that I cut myself. I get a mixed reaction. Some of the people are upset and some are disgusted. But most of them just don’t understand.

Ever since that first time I cut myself I have hated the feelings that follow it, but it does help when I am actually doing it. The only person that I think has actually tried to understand is my best mate Sam. She has always been there if I needed to chat, even in the middle of the night.

So if you know someone who is cutting themselves, don’t judge what they are doing. Just try to be there, ask if you can help. And don’t try to preach to them.


Copyright, Amanda

It is hard for me to say what exactly makes me want to cut, or what lead up to it. I have a very sketchy past, and some theories as to what may have happened to me. I know that something must have. It is just one of those things that you can feel but you have no idea. Like when you are in a dark room and yet you know when something is standing right next to you. There are a few hints that help you see that object. For me, I have my dreams, and a few memories and obviously my current behaviour. My parents divorced when I was 5, I remember the day almost perfectly. My parents believe that this was what the trauma in my life was, along with my grandmother, who was like a mother to me dying a few years ago. No; that was just what started it. I never remember my father visiting me for about 3 years after my parents divorced. Even though I am told that he did quite often. My mother was pretty much non-existent in my life after the divorce, both my parents were never really parents to me before either, they were always working, and I was always visiting my grandmother’s, which was fine with me seeing as she was always there for me and was just about everything anyone could imagine for a mother figure. Well, anyways. After my parents divorced, my mom, sister and I went to live with my grandma, we lived there for 3 years. Her always being the one to care for me when I was sick, if I got hurt, to help me with school. My mother continued to work constantly. Well, when I was going into 3rd grade my mother told me we were going to move out of my grandma’s house. (I just found out a few months ago that my grandma and aunts and uncles did not like that idea for they knew how my mom was with her work, and wanted to keep me and my sister there.) But anyways; we let this family friend live with us, his name was Kenny. Him and my stepdad were both heavy alcoholics and well me and my sister received all the bullshit that goes along with it. None of that ever really bothers me though; maybe it is just because I don’t remember much from around then. But I always remember that Kenny would tickle me and I would feel uncomfortable. I don’t know if this means something; my friend that I’ve told says that it probably does. especially since I have dreams of being raped. But I just don’t remember a thing. And if it didn’t happen then why can I picture something like that happening, and why do I have so many uncomfortable memories around him? Who knows. I did have a friend where I lived, she was two years older than me, and we used to play rapist. One of us would be the guy and one would be the girl and we would pretend to rape each other. Not ever really touching each other in that way but just acting out the motions. I never really thought twice about it at the time. Three years later, before anything with my grandmother happened, me and my mom got into a fight and I went into my room and got out a chemistry set that I had owned and opened up the bottles and held one up to my mouth and was about to drink it when my mother walked in and took it from me. I wanted to kill myself, and the school found out because I said something about suicide and some girl told a guidance counsellor who had to call my mom. And so forth. Nothing happened though. Nothing ever does in my house. But what really bothers me is that my mom doesn’t remember a thing about it. Not one thing. Things went on pretty uneventful for the next 2 years, when I was in 8th grade my grandmother’s cancer came back, I didn’t know that she had had cancer before and was in remission. Well the doctors gave her 6 months to live. And on the day after her birthday, on the 6th month, she died. I remember coming home from school and my mother telling me, I forced myself to cry. I wasn’t even sad. I hated myself for it. I was supposed to be sad and I wasn’t. I should have been sad. I loved her to death. She was practically my mother and now she was gone. At her wake she looked so beautiful. And I did a eulogy for her. Everything seemed so fake. She wasn’t dead. And even today I act as though she isn’t. It still hasn’t hit me. One year later, on the same day she died I overdosed on Tylenol. My best friend at that time had done the same the month before, right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop her. She went unconscious and had to have CPR done on her. And all I could do was stand there. I remember the lights of the fire truck and ambulance taking her away. And I made my mom take me to the hospital to see her. She was in there for a week because of liver damage. She went to a psych ward and everything. During that time my eating had dwindled to about an apple a week. I was loosing weight like mad. And I was miserable. Then I overdosed, not many but just enough to have to drink charcoal and go to a psych ward myself. And of course I had to eat there or else they would notice. And that is all I needed. Well, I made up some lie and got out of there. There was a girl there who scratched her arm with tweezers, she broke the two ends apart and used the rough edge that it created. it fascinated me. And I don’t know how but that just stuck in my mind and a week after I got out I got into a fight with my mom and I went into my room and scratched myself with my fingernails. My first self harm act. It felt so good too. Everything was serene and peaceful for that moment. I remember counting the amount of minutes that I continuously scratched myself for. 5, for I have to do things in fives (OCD). I didn’t do it again for about a month. And then it gradually progressed to about once a week and somehow I found a razor blade, the kind from a disposable razor that you shave your legs with and began cutting with that. It started to become more frequent and deeper. I got scared and told my counsellor that I had begun seeing after I got out of the hospital. She of course had to tell my parents. And of course nothing was done about it, as does everything else in my house and I just cut deeper and more frequently until I was addicted, and couldn’t stop, nor did I want to stop. it was now my release for every feeling in the world. Love, hate, anger, shame, happiness, anything. It brought me back to reality when I dissociated. It brought me to a dissociative state when reality was too much to handle. Cutting consumed my life, and I loved every minute of it. I couldn’t handle life anymore and through cutting and scratching I could. And when even cutting didn’t help I quickly learnt that burning myself would. there was always something that I could go toward to help me. Fall of my 9th grade year I moved to my dads house because my parents thought I needed a more structured environment. That same year I ended up back into another hospital for my cutting. It had just gotten out of control. I was in there for 4 weeks and was forced to leave mainly because all the psych hospitals are short term nowadays. While I was there I got in a lot of trouble for sneaking in razorblades and such. I needed them. I would look all over to find things to harm myself with when they found my razorblades. After I got out, I started cutting even worse. nothing helped. I started being brought to the ER by my parents to have stitches. And I would always have to talk to a person from psych. But I would tell them some lie about how I was fine and such. Then about 6 months later I was back in another psych hosp. For cutting. I was out in a week. I just pretended like I was better. The truth was that I just didn’t care enough to bother cutting. I was too far gone. not even cutting helped me anymore. It just felt good. The sensation of the blade running across my skin was beyond words. And here I am today. I now live back at my mom’s house because my dad’s fiance broke up with him and he didn’t like the idea of me being alone for over three hours when I got home from school. So I am living at the house where it all started again. And of course nothing has changed, and I doubt it will. I know this is pretty long and mainly just a synopsis of my life, but it was just something I needed to write down for myself, and if other people read this and it helps them know they are not alone then that’s even better.


Copyright, Amanda

My name is Amanda. I’m 24, I have a beautiful 2 and half year old daughter and the most wonderful husband you could ask for. I don’t deserve either of them. I’m a living nightmare. I have bipolar disorder, and to top it off I started cutting about 3 months ago. It was an accident really. In a maniacal rage I grabbed a knife and sliced myself.

To late, I was hooked. I found a way to relieve some of the rage I keep locked away in my mind. Nobody knows, yet. I cut in places that I can hide, at least for now I do. Every cut goes deeper and deeper. I’ve already scarred myself in places. I can’t imagine what I’m going to look like a year from now. I want to stop it, but it’s my Rx for relief, and I just can’t seem to stop!

A beautiful daughter, a caring, devoted husband.

Cutting is just one more hell that I’m subjecting them too. And they don’t deserve it. I need help, but I’m scared. I’ve been in hospitals before because of my bipolar. They were horrible visits. If getting help means going to another one, then I’ll die a cutter. But my mind tells me there must be another way. I’ve survived sexual, mental and physical abuse over the years of my life, and I conquered them. Yet I can’t conquer my latest misery. No, there must be something you can tell me to help. I’m begging you.

Save me from myself.


Copyright, Amanda

I have been going through a downward spiral lately. I’m unsure of what to do right now, so I decided typing it all out could help me to think of things that have happened. One of my first real suicide attempts was taking pills. I didn’t count the exact amount, but I just took anything I could get my hands on from the kitchen cabinet.

I fell asleep a few minutes later, thinking I wouldn’t be waking up the next morning. To my surprise, I did. I woke up with the worst pains I had ever felt. Throwing up all over myself kind of told me that I hadn’t died. I was like that the whole day. Most of the day I was praying that I had died because the pain was so terrible.

My family wasn’t aware I had done it, because there was a bug going around, so what I did was kind of sneaky. I told a few days later, and was sent to a crisis centre. That started my string of therapy and psych ward stays.

Even after all of that I attempted with pills again. I guess I just hadn’t learnt. My sister saw me doing it this time, and my mother drove me to the emergency room. I had to have an IV plugged into my hand and drink two cups of disgusting charcoal. From 4 pm till 12 am I just lay there in the bed, wondering why I had done this to myself. Wondering what would have happened if I had actually gotten away with it this time, and it worked.

My mother and sister were with me most of the time, and my mom saw that I was in pain just laying there. The pills that I took made me very drowsy, but not at all tired. I was sleepy to the point where my eyes were tearing because I needed so badly to sleep, but I couldn’t. They had to take my blood two times for some reason. The nurse wasn’t exactly that good, because she had stuck my arm more than 5 times unable to get any blood. It was a horrible experience that has burned a bit of knowledge into my mind forever. I know there are other ways to kill yourself. I’m not saying go try those. But when I saw my family sad because of what I did, I realised there was some things I had to do in life. It was to help other people stay happy.


Copyright, Amanda

I used to read magazines about self harm a lot. When those girls talked about how it felt so good to cut, I didn’t believe them. I mean, why would hurting yourself feel good? Well, here’s the twisted part. I feels good. Great, even, The best thing I could ever feel.

OK, lets continue with my story. You know, having a bad day, nothing is going the way you planned, generally depressed. I thought, “hmmm… maybe if I cut this once, just to see what it feels like, I’ll be fine”. So, I took out my razor, and did what was needed to be done. And it didn’t hurt at all. In fact, nowadays, it hurts when I’m not doing it. After that, I thought it was a really great way to manage out my problems. Kind of like a best friend, you know? I mean, to leave this behind, would be like betraying the only person that ever helped you, the only one that never hurt you. For once, I thought I had control. Well, pretty soon, self control took control over me. Every night I was cutting. I would wake up with scars I didn’t even remember making. The only people that know are my two best friends, Cammie and Alex. I knew Cammie first. She’s a cutter too. When she saw my arm for the first time, she said “Don’t go to far. Once you start, you can’t stop.” Of course, I didn’t believe her. But she was so so so right. Now, I don’t know how to stop. I literally don’t know how. So, I guess this is my story, and my life. Damn, I hate goodbyes.


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