My Story

Copyright, Ashamed

I don’t know why I started this. And I want to stop here and now, but I also want to be better, I want to wake and not have to hate very single inch of purple, scar covered skin. That is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever overcome, but for now I am just hoping to convince myself that one scar will make all the difference, I cannot go back to where I was, because before I know it one scar will have led to over thirty.

I used to visit this site for its pictures, sometimes they’d trigger me and I’d use them solely for that, I loved it for that while. Sometimes I’d do it to satisfy my need to see the blood. But that is all besides the point, I came here today to see the pictures again, and found you need a password. I don’t have one, and I wanted to find out how to get one. I frantically clicked through each section till I came across this text box and saw how easy it all could be. I begun typing and got to where I am now.

This is not a sucess story as I see no sucess in any of my SI, it has only now left me with more hate.

It begun — I don’t feel ready to type this because of fear of what people will think, and I don’t think I should include it. But then I remind myself I can send this out to whoever I wish, and I don’t know the others on this site, so that will not bother me.

The first time I remember self harming was in September/October 2001. I had come home from school, and it had not been one of the better days. I still don’t know if I can face up to writing this, I feel as though if I admit to this I have nothing left, I have left myself go. And I’m scared to do that. Thinking about it now I’ve stood back for a second, it doesn’t seem like so much of a big deal. And right now all I can think is that I don’t want to sound like everyone else, I want to have my own reasons for being here. But I don’t want to be alone at the same time.

So, at the time of my first S/H, I sat on my bed in tears. I was being harassed by some boys at school — it all just sounds so trivial now, though I still feel like it was me who was in the wrong, I am the one who should feel guilty for it. I doubt they ever even think back on it. I sat there that night with a safety pin in my hands, and all up my left forearm I marked in lines, and the word “slut”, for that was all I was. I remember thinking how ironic it was I’d done it with a ‘safety’ pin. Nobody noticed the next day. I wanted them to see it, I wanted to scream my pain, but it was like in a dream when you go to shout but don’t make a sound, no matter how hard you try, it was useless. That was how I felt. I wouldn’t let the word heal and for months after that I kept recarving it. That pattern went on for years, with scars appearing on my hands, wrists and arms. I progressed to smashing my wrists (each side, lef and right) against my wardrobe side, though it was more like my wall as it was built in. I began headbanging against the door and once knocked myself out for around five minutes.

During this time and last year I developed other problems (suicide attempts - tho I had been like that since 1999 — and easting disorders which have mildly attacked me since I was six, but flared up over the past couple of years.) and s/h just got worse and worse. In one night I gave myself 56 scars in one go. I was having panic attacks when I tried to leave my house without my razor (the objects got sharper and sharper till I walked about with just a blade), and couldn’t last for more than two days without cutting.

I was stealing my mum’s anti-depressant tablets that she wasn’t taking, and then taking days off school and just using these and some allergy pills I had to knock me out for around tweleve hours. I remember always carrying those pills with me as I not only took them over the day but at night as well because I could never sleep for more than an hour a night otherwise.

I remember one particular night where I got very drunk (I tell parts of this story a lot, it’s still much part of my life) and I was cutting myself with a butchers knife (nearest thing I could find) and began to tear my own hair out. The next morning I woke up with another (I had a bald patch already from not eating) hairless patch at where my fringe would be, and a black eye and a horribly bruised cheekbone that I had given me by punching myself. That night I passed out for three hours, and could not sit properly, let alone walk. I had a lot of bad experience’s that night which I won’t go into but still hurt me every day after knowing I can get myself into that state.

I still have scars which I have to deal with for the rest of my life, and right now I’m not sure if I can do that, I’m not even sure I can get by through the rest of my life without cutting. But hopefully as the days go by I’ll become less and less dependant, but only time will tell.


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