Copyright, Bram

I’m 20 now, and started cutting myself a week before my 17th birthday. Before that I had tried to kill myself three times in the past three years.

I don’t remember what put the idea of cutting in my head, but I do remember the first time that I did it. I made one cut, near my left thumb, and I kept a bandaid over it for the next two weeks. After I took it off, I started cutting myself a couple of times a week, and before I knew it, I was cutting myself everyday.

I had a special routine that I went through. During my lunch break at school, I would go to the same bathroom stall every day, put two layers of toilet paper on my left thigh, sitting indian style on the toilet, and give myself five deep cuts on my left forearm. I would put the razor away right after the last cut, so that I wouldn’t end up doing anymore in that session. I would let them bleed until the two minute bell, and then wrap my arm in gauze and flush all the bloody toilet paper down the toilet.

The only times that I didn’t follow my routine were when I was especially nervous about something. I would do it in my bathroom at night after my parents started questioning my wearing long sleeves all the time. I even cut myself in the middle of my english class one day. I held my arm under the desk, and made three small cuts with a razor blade on my arm. Nobody even noticed, while I hurried through my backpack to find a tissue so that the blood wouldn’t drip on the carpet. I put a couple of bandaids on it just as my teacher was calling me up to give a speech.

I cut for about six months, and then stopped after talking about my problems with a few people online. I started writing poetry instead.

About three weeks ago, poetry became inefficient. I just couldn’t do it anymore, and now I cut once a week, between six and ten cuts a session. I do it on my left upper arm, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop again.


Permanent location: