When There Is No Escape

Copyright Cheyenne

Sometimes I can’t take being hit too much, or the amount of control and dominion that I am under, or the constant mind games, sometimes the torment gets too much. But hey siblings do fight don’t they? I’m tired of internalising everything, pretrending that I was never affected. I am grateful for everything I have and sometimes to be grateful you have to recognise that there is always punishment and you can only deserve something really good if you have that punishment. Maybe it’s just not right to have that punishment stop, maybe it is human nature to put you into your place. I felt too confident too happy when it got better

You need to excert some control, don’t you?

For happy or bad times, you have to remind yourself that you can always be put down. Yes I’m nineteen and used to SH, but the euphoria you feel when you hurt yourself is just a pretense and makes your anger and self hatred even worse. I am so grateful for my body and that I am healthy, what right do I have to exploit my body and make a mockery out of those who are really hurt, physically. It’s self indulgent and it is selfish, why then do I keep on referring to old ways. I’m not condemning anyone who does self harm, I guess I’m just saying be careful and realise everything around you and thank God, Allah, heck Madonna anyone who gets you away from your dark state as whether you time is good or bad, it is what makes you, don’t become a victim of circumstance.


Copyright Cheyenne

I started cutting when I was in 7th grade over the Christmas holiday. When I was little I used to love the holiday breaks from school, and I would love them more, except that my mom always yells constantly at me. My friend Lauren had just got put into a mental help hospital because she had been cutting every day in the girls locker room, and had finally got caught. When I asked her why she did it, she said she did it because it helped her feel free, and to get everything bad that had ever happened out of her system. That’s what I wanted. I wanted to feel like I had nothing bad in me. So over the holiday I tried it. Just a small cut right on the vein in my left forearm, and when it wouldn’t stop bleeding I panicked. I rushed in and told my mom that I hurt myself on a nail that was sticking out of a board in the wall, and that it wouldn’t stop bleeding. When I got to the hospital, they gave me five stitches and instructed my mom to remove the nail from the wall so that I couldn’t do it again. After that I vowed never to do it again.

Like every promise, this one was also meant to be broken. In April 2004, my boyfriend Matt and I broke up. And that was the last straw. I couldn’t take my life any more. My mom was always yelling, and Matt was always yelling, and my friends weren’t talking to me because I talked to Matt a lot instead of them, and now that Matt was gone, I didn’t have anyone to talk to. So I started cutting, before school, during school, after school, basically anytime that I thought it was safe to bring out my little razor and cut. I felt basically like nothing was going right in my life, and it was all my fault. So instead of wanting to feel free, I felt that I needed to punish myself for all the things I had done wrong. My mom noticed the cuts on my wrist, and when she asked what happened I just told her that the cats didn’t like me, and when I tried to hold them, they would claw at me to make me put them down. But honestly, every week, do you think the same thing could have happened without me learning not to pick up the cats?

Well she never suspected a thing. But of course, good old Matt did. He started noticing me wearing long sleeves even though it’s Texas and it’s hot all year round, and that if I did wear short sleeves, that I had some type of bracelets over my wrists so that no one could look at them. He started yelling at me more on AIM. Saying that I was stupid, and that I was gonna kill myself. But someone yelling at you calling you a ho, and stupid, and a slut, and worthless, doesn’t make you feel a whole lot greater about yourself. So I kept doing it. But instead of on my wrists, I did it on my upper shoulders, so that I could still wear short sleeves without anyone noticing.

It really does help me to vent and I still do it, and it’s not getting better, although I am thinking about seeing a counsellor, and my doctor prescribed me Zoloft to help me be, I don’t know, happier? And I have a semi-supportive boyfriend who tries to help me get through everything, and wants to make sure that he goes with me to the doctor, so that he can find out how to help. Seeing someone that cares about you, can really help someone who is putting themselves down by cutting, and there is always someone at least one person, who cares.


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