Copyright Andra

I guess I didn’t know what to do. I guess I still don’t. It was midnight and I had school the next day. I was thinking about how bad life seemed to be for everyone. How my friend was completely throwing his life away and how the good people never stick around. And I was thinking about camping last summer. I wanted summer so bad. Winter always put me in a perpetual state of depression and all of that going through my head so fast or maybe so slow that I couldn’t stand it. I was looking at the knife. It was glinting in the dark. Yes, the one I took camping last summer. I was thinking about what the detective was going to say when he read the letter telling him that my friend had pulled a gun on this guy and damn near shot him. We were too young for that weren’t we? And I looked at the knife again thinking about how my parents lived, and thinking about how they didn’t know me at all. Thinking about how only 2 or 3 people in the whole entire world did. And then I felt like nothing. And then I felt really, really good. Because I was bleeding. I had just taken that knife and cut my wrist. But it was so dull that it didn’t do any serious damage and it was so dark that I missed my vein, but only by centimeters. But if that little bit felt so good, imagine how it would feel more and deeper. With that feeling I finally drifted into sleep. And so it began. But I was so scared. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why people kept telling me how responsible and what well adjusted and mature kid I was. And what this well adjusted kid thought was these people don’t know shit. I’m a total psycho. But I didn’t really. I was so scared someone would find out. I don’t know why. For some inexplicable reason I’ve always been terrified of people knowing things about me. Even my parents. I was so scared of speaking to them about anything that was untrivial. I guess I thoght they’d know and it was like baring my soul. And that held absolutely no appeal to me. So for the whole year I went on cutting my fingers and palms because it heals fast there and because people don’t notice like they would. I used razors mostly, and sewing needles. The next year I was sitting with my friends in the gym reading an article about it in Teen that my friend Kristy had dubbed really gross. I hadn’t even realized it was such a sort of epidemic. I looked at my friend Jillian and frankly I don’t even think I realized what I was saying. I said “it’s not bad, it’s good, it’s OK, I swear.” And I looked at my fingers and the scars on my wrist and I realized I hadn’t done it in a while. Which started me doing it a little more again, but not my finger this time. I guess because the bigger and deeper, the better. And I knew that, so that’s what I did. Midnight again, and I’m furious as usual. My dad has talked me out of killing my mother (not that I hated her but we didn’t get along great and I had a bad temper) and we began talking about my grandfather and it triggered a lot of memories. One I shouldn’t have been remembering. I swore to myself it was my imagination but then it became undeniable. I had been molested as a child by the closest male in my family other than my dad and I was never going to be able to see him again. Little by little I sunk. I had no sense of reality. I was a friggin’ zombie. The only time I felt living was when I was mad or bleeding. So I made myself bleed more and more until I couldn’t hide it because whole patches of my skin were nothing but carnage. Torn flesh and blood and scabs. Which is when everyone found out. My friends held some kind of intervention for me with a couselor present. I sat through that and cried and two hours later I cut myself again. Then my parents found out and absolutely freaked. They didn’t know why I did it. They didn’t understand. But I told them what they saw was all there was. That I had only done it six times (really, it had been constantly over two years). They made me swear to stop, in return they promised not to send me to the dreaded psychologist. I kept at it, this time I hid it better. My friends began freaking out but I managed to hide it from my parents. I kept at it, promising that I was stopping to everyone who knew, and always running back to it. I didn’t know what to do about the pain on the inside, so I made it real and wore it on the outside. It seemed like forever that this crimson circle has been spinning around me. I wish it would end, you know? Yet it never does. Then I met John. He became very close to me in ways that other people didn’t understand. People hated him. He was different. He was anti everything normal. He was bi-sexual. But he was my friend, he understood me because he also cut himself and for about a year we played this “I won’t if you won’t” game. Failing every time and hurting ourselves and eachother this time. I did it for me and for him, I guess. Then John disappeared. Where he went I still don’t know, and I’ve been looking for him to this day. Even so, the cutting continued. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop. I guess if I talked about why then I would but I am now and even as im sitting here I feel like it. I can feel that bug of premonition telling me that come midnight I will be sitting on the tile floor of my bathroom, bleeding and crying. And wondering if I will ever know if it will ever end. I still do it. I fight it, but sometimes I give in. Yes, I have tried to kill myself but all attempts failed. I guess that I just wasn’t dedicated enough to it. I lie every day. Every expression, every smile, every word, every time I swear I don’t, I do. I hate lying. And I guess ultimately, in the end of it all I hate cutting too, but for the moment I don’t. I do want to stop and that is why I joined up with this website. Any suggestiond appreciated. Though you should know I cut a whole lot less now. Only at really bad times. And that at the times that it was bad I did it at least twice a day and every single day. But not so. Things are starting to heal. I guess the scars will be there forever and that’s OK because they remind me of the things that will make me strong, if it doesn’t bleed me dry first. My feeling quite often and for too long resembled that of another girl’s story I read, Crow’s, it really touched me. And I’m looking to change those feelings. I don’t know if I can, but I’m willing to try. Because I’m sick of lying and having seen the look on my friend’s face when he grabbed my arm and asked what happened here and the I don’t belive you expression when I told him I had a run in with my locker. I felt so sick. I want to remember what happened when I was young, every single bit of it. I want to fix the pain on the inside. I want to stop lying and stop crying. I just want to be OK. Anyone who wants to talk at all can email me at


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