Psyke.org

Andrew

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Copyright Andrew

Well, I guess I’ll start by saying hello. I know so many people out there that cut and I have seen a lot of stuff. My original contact with SI was through a girlfriend of a year and eight months. I found out she did it and was frightened and scared that she would kill herself. She explained to me she couldn’t stop and it helped her, but I never really understood. I have always come from a broken home but more so in the past few years than ever before, and that’s when I started cutting, three years ago. I cut every night when I’m alone in my room. My mom sees the scars and does nothing more than say I need to stop doing it. My mom is a bit fucked up also but not as bad as me, she’s just a bad mother. I guess I should explain a bit more about myself to make it easier to understand. I’ve always been myself, everyone I ever meet tells me I’m so original and whatnot, the only other constant thing in my life is skateboarding and learning. I am sixteen years old and started skateboarding a little before I started cutting. I am also a genius with an IQ of 165. I have graduated high school and been studying psychotherapy and human psychology for the past one and a half years. At the end of this fall I will be admitted to UCLA, but despite the things I seem to have going for me, my life is a wreck. My family over the past four years has gone to hell. I no longer have a real family. I don’t see my father, any of my little cousin, my aunts that I love so much or my grandparents. I have been diagnosed as a residual schizophrenic and bipolar. I don’t really understand why I am writing this and don’t expect anyone to read it, but I have no one to talk to and this comes easy to let these things out. Washington is my home, my room is my haven, and a razor blade is my release. I cut all the time, not always specific things just lines, sometimes up to ten inches long and half an inch deep. I bleed all the time and it brings me something, I don’t know. SI is a horrible thing and I don’t wish anyone to experience it, but unfortunately many people do. I wish I could have gotten help earlier but now I just work at helping my friends, other people that cut. Making them stop isn’t hard because I try with all my life, even if that’s what it takes; threatening to kill myself, I’ve tried before three times and even succeeded twice, dying for four minutes in the bed in the hospital. I’d love to talk to anyone who would like to contact me. My e-mail is dirtyarab15@hotmail.com (I didn’t make the e-mail address, a retarded friend did).

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Copyright Andrew

I wish I could just turn back time and be normal again, after I finished my second year in high school, my school refused to take me back again because I had a history of being absent from class most of the time. It was partly my fault, but to begin with my father was not really fit for the father part. My mother whom I loved was away working to support us, my brother and sister had their own lives. I had no one, but myself; it was in my third year that I started to cut, it wasn’t self-injury in the normal sense, but more of anger-induced self-injury. I made a pact with myself to end it all when my count reached this amount; I marked each count not in paper but with my skin, using a blade. Cutting myself intentionally never really gave me the calming effect most self-injurers have.

I never really realised I was depressed, depression never was in my dictionary. It was after I graduated when I cut myself deep — the pressure and the fact that no one really understands how I feel, everyone keeps telling me to get over it — it’s all in my head they keep telling me. It was at the time a mini-suicide, the fact that it made me feel better kept me alive. shallow cuts don’t affect me deep cuts and burns do. Unlike others, I am afraid to cut deep, I am afraid that the scar will be too visible. So I make shallow cuts instead.

I don’t know why I’m writing this, even after two years of trying to fit in anywhere, mailing-lists and bulletin boards, I never do feel that anyone understands. I always feel unreal and like I am already dead, empty inside. This is the best I could write, omitting my previous history of depression before SI came to me, and a lot more things I’m too tired to remember and write, or may have blocked out entirely from my memory.

 

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