Copyright, Cella, Original location

The Start of It All

It started about 6 months ago, Middle of February, Just after my 16th birthday. I know this because I wrote about it in my diary. I’d done it before, but that was out of boredom and I numbed it with ice, so to not feel the pain. I no longer have scars from that time. February, it was just a few scratches, with a blunt knife. Back then I would never have thought that I would be covered in scars like I am now. I can’t fully remember my first time, I was just feeling a little low, and the scissors were there, so I just cut. It was nothing, it hardly even bled. I could pass it as a cat scratch. That’s what I told my mum. I couldn’t tell her that I had hurt myself, I couldn’t bear to think that I could do it. I didn’t do it for a bit. I couldn’t tell anyone, what would they think of me, hell I’m hurting myself. One night I went through the tool box, I’m not sure why, and I found a blade, a razor blade, for some reason, I kept it, I put it in my bed side drawer. I don’t know when, but I was feeling low, just thoughts were going through my head, why am I here, what am I going to do when I leave school. The future scared me and still does. reached for that blade that I knew was in my drawer, I took it, and scratched it along my arm. I stopped, I looked at what I had done, the shit feeling I had before had gone. I was at peace in a way. Then I just broke down, I started crying, why had I done that to myself, why, it hurt. I still have the scars from that first time, and although they are not as bad as some of my scars, in a way they are the worst, they are the first ones. I didn’t cut for about 2 weeks, I hadn’t thought of it, but those feelings came back, I reached for the razor, I dragged it across my leg, small, but a lot of scratches. I did not cry this time, I just had the feeling of relief. I only really did it about once a week. I told no one of what I had done. I was fine at school, I wore a jumper, it was end of first term.

How They Found Out, and Getting Help

I never had the intention of telling my parents, I didn’t want them to know what I did, that I wasn’t the perfect daughter they thought I was. I didn’t want their disapproval. I knew I had to tell them, but even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have known how. Anyway, how did they find out if I didn’t tell them? I wanted to tell someone, but I didn’t know how to. I would sit by the phone and want to phone the kids’ helpline, but I was scared. I couldn’t even tell my best friend, I didn’t want people to disapprove of me, I know she never would, but I still couldn’t make myself tell her. This is still pretty clear in my head. Some day the air was sunny, and everthing, I was actually feeling OK, not crap, the end of lunch, when my friend said to me the counselor wanted to see me an instant bad vibe came over me, I thought it could be one of two things, someone had told her about my cuts, but who I thought, or it could be about my best friend, who has her problems. So I went in there, when I went in there and she asked me to sit down, I just felt sick, she knew. She said she had seen the scratchea on my leg, (we wore school skirt, medium length) I thought back to the day I was in her office, I remember thinking that my skirt might have slipped up, but I couldn’t help thinking, that I had made it “slip” She asked me if I had done it myself, I thought, why don’t I say no but I knew that it was the time to tell, tell someone. Even if I didn’t someone was going to find out, in a bad way, so I said yes. The rest was just questions, were, why, what, etc, it felt good to let it all out, to tell someone. Then the topic of telling my parents came up. I felt even more sick, this is what I had been dreading. She told them for me, it made it easier. The rest of the day was a blur, it just went by. I was dreading her coming home. She came home, she asked me questions, I couldn’t answer them, I couldn’t talk about it. I continued to see the counselor about once a week. For a while. When my dad found out it made it worse in a way, he asked my why I did it, I still couldn’t tell him, he asked if it was about teasing, I just said yes, so that’s what he thought it was, he talked to me about it, and stuff to do, but it didn’t make any difference. He thought he knew everything about me, he thought he had fixed everything, but he hadn’t, he went away for ages at a time, so he was hardly ever there. He had been away when my mum found out. I still did it, but pretty much just on my leg, I didn’t want to on my arms, I didn’t want people to see. The fact that my parents knew didn’t seem to change things, if anything it made it worse, they would ask if I had done it, I would just say no.


It’s now the beginning of August, things haven’t gotten any better, I still cut. I am now seeing a psychiatrist. I see her for IS, and also depression and my ED. I find it hard to talk about cutting, but I need to, it helps to get that stuff out. I’m also on Zoloft, I’m not sure if it has made much of a difference, I think it does when I start taking it, but sometimes I don’t take it, I don’t like having to take pills to make me happy, but my dose has just gone up to 100mg so I have started to take them again, can’t tell if they are working yet. My arms are now covered in scars, I said before that I didn’t cut on my arms, but as things got worse, I just didn’t seem to care, and it was winter so I wear jumpers, easy.

January 1 2002

Well it’s been like 4 months since I wrote this. Things have started getting OK. Kinda. I haven’t cut for three months. Before that I cut once real bad, I still have the visible dark red scars from that. It was one of the times that when it went white before it bled and then it bled heaps. I’m wanting to cut so much at the moment.

Where, When and What, Why

Sometimes I cut just to see the blood, I want to see it pour out of my wrist. I now have many scars all over my arms, and my legs. My arm bled more, so it was, in a way, more satisfying. I have just lately stopped cutting on my arms. Because its summer coming up, and at the end of this month I’m wearing a short sleeve top to my dinner dance. At one time I would do it just to get a scar, to see the blood run and to get a really deep scar. I pick my cuts, that makes the scars worse. But most of the time I do it to relieve my self, it’s the way I cope. I usually do it on my leg, up the top, it’s covered in horrible scars. There is one scar, that in a way I like (I know that sounds sick) it’s the word “FUCK”. I also do it on my wrist, it bleeds quite a lot, and it is easy to cover with my watch. I have done it on my feet, and also my stomach. With what? The first time, scissors, then a razor. When I lost that, I actually went quite crazy. I found a blade that goes in one of those Stanley knife things. Hell it was heaps sharper. At my dad’s place, I don’t tend to always take my friend (my blade) with me, I do sometimes, but when I don’t I use anything I can find, scissors, a needle, I smashed a glass. Where, I usually do it at night, in bed, when im alone. self infliction is not just cutting, and I have done the other things a few times, I have hit my self over the head with a glass coke bottle and at times smash my head against the wall, I got a lump. I also lie next to the heater, very close, and see how much I cant stand the heat, my side always get very red and very sore, I often think this is cool, although it’s not. I have never really figured out why I cut, but after I have done it, I feel relieved, most of my thoughts are of how much I hate my self, my future, and will anyone want me? I don’t really know why I am telling my story, giving detail, why would anyone care? Oh well, it’s good to get it out, if anyone has any questions mail me.


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