Copyright, Claire

My name is Claire and I am fourteen years old. I have been self harming for four years, since I found out my dad had been sleeping with my auntie and my mum had sleept with a man older than her dad. My dad had been sleeping with my auntie from the very day I was born until I was six years old. My mum left when I was ten and she tried to kill herself four times. Finally she was admitted into a mental hospital for treatment. My uncle took an overdose and died when I was seven and my gran got breast cancer when I was eleven. My other gran died a few months back and my great granddad died a few months before that. I thought my first serious boyfriend could help me, instead he cheated on me, then my second boyfriend cheated on me and took advantage of me and my third boyfriend beat me up and threatened to rape me if I didn’t sleep with him. I also thought I was pregnant with him. He threatend to kick me and dump me if he ever found out I was carrying his baby. Worthless. Now I’m in a steedy relationship with Graeme who is trying to help me so I thank him for that. My dad knows I cut but just said I’m a stupid cow for doing it. I didn’t even get help. So now I burn, cut, pierce, engrave symbols, ping bands to make marks and even eat unedible objects to hurt me. I know everyone else probably has a worse history than me but I just thought I’d send you my story. Thanks for listening.


Copyright, Claire

I first started using SI to escape when I was fifteen. I am now sixteen. There are different reasons for it. I lost my aunt through various problems; I was six at the time. My parents and family thought us (me and my older brother who was eight at the time) too young to understand and care about what was happening.

In reality we were affected very deeply. At the time we did not show our reactions badly, we tried to run away, that is all. Then recently my grandfather got sick and went to hospital, this is a time when family should be together to support eachother. And all I could think was that there was someone missing. I am now sixteen, but I still have the hurt and pain from losing a close family member.

I think hiding the pain from my parents was the worst thing I ever did. I bottled it up, afraid of upsetting them and afraid to let them know I hurt. I knew I had clinical depression, but I would not tell my mum. It got so bad that I wrote my goodbye letters and made plans for suicide. Obviously they didn’t work. And no one ever found out about them. I was too cowardly to cut deep enough to die, although that was the only way out of the pain inside and all the confusion I felt because of not understanding the feelings I had.

It was this suicide attempt (if you can call it that) that made me find the release of cutting. At first I just experimented, seeing if it hurt, and what things cut best. I was so disappointed in myself that I am such a coward I could not even end my life when I knew it to be the only way out, so disappointed I had failed.

I used many different things: nail scissors, paper scissors, kitchen knives, craft knives, nail files, broken glass, my own nails, Stanley knives. And finally I found the thing I use now, a cutthroat razor. They are easy to hide, easy to use and they cut deeply. To this day I have not tried any other method, I am happy with this one.

Recently my mum got worried and dragged me to the doctors, where I was yet again diagnosed with depression. She did not know I had been to a different doctor on my own months before. But I did not mention anything about SI. My mum talked as though she had a right to know when I am depressed, clinically or not. She does not understand.

She made me think though; if she deserves to know then surely I can trust my nine year long best friend? She must have some right to know as well? So I told her, unknowingly setting myself up for disaster. She took it badly, blaming herself and wishing I had told her as soon as I had found out. I felt so guilty. All I could do was run away and cut. I waited until it stopped bleeding, to hide it from everyone. And when I went back to my friend she apologised but the wound opened again and bled for the whole world to see.

She was more upset about SI than the depression; she understands less of SI than depression. Since then our relationship is strained and she acts different towards me. She was never different until she found out about these two problems I have, even though I had them and she knew nothing about them for months. How can I help her understand that I need something to stay unchanged in this life? How can I help her accept the new me? And how can I get her to understand? She does not understand the same way that people on this site do. If anyone has any ideas or even just want to talk please e-mail me. Please let me know your experiences of this. And if anyone has managed to stop SI I need help with that too.

When I think of stopping my SI I shake and panic. My thoughts get confused and I lose control. In short I panic. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have that release of seeing the blood and all the badness pouring out of me. If anyone understands these feelings and can help me please e-mail me. Even if anyone cannot help with these things but understands and would like to talk, please do.

Thanks for all the stories on the site, it’s great to finally understand I am not alone and I’m not a psycho. My e-mail is


Copyright, Claire

Me. I could say so many words to describe myself, selfish, ugly, worthless, useless, and evil, I deserve nothing. Yet so many people care. Sometimes I wish they didn’t because they don’t understand.

Sure I’ve had counselling. But how does that help when I’m not even helping myself? I think I need professional help because of the voices in my head. They’re the ones that tell me, no scream at me that I’m worthless and selfish and stupid. I am trying to stop cutting, I don’t even do it that hard though. I want to bleed so much. I’m too weak to do it. Though the pain I feel isn’t from the stinging, bleeding slices, but from the pain in the eyes of my boyfriend when he sees my arms, I don’t deserve his love. That’s if he does love me and not feel sorry for me. I am so UGLY! I hate myself so much I cry myself to sleep when I think of all the stupid things I’ve done and said. I cut my arms till there is no more room for cutting; I’m not too scared to cut over them just too exhausted. Cut my legs too, also my chest when I wished I was cutting out my heart, that didn’t bleed much nor did my stomach.

My mum thinks I stopped last year, she hasn’t seen my arms. My dad hasn’t a clue if he did he’d take me out of school. That’s the last thing I want, it’s not school it’s mostly him, it was school three years ago. Now their words are stuck in my mind.

I think it started when I was little, around seven; I used to punish myself by making a chair fall on top of me and tying myself up, often trying to strangle myself. I’m not sure why I did this. I hated my parents arguing, I hated the way my dad spoke to my mum, and I hated the way he spoke to me. I didn’t think about cutting till I was being bullied in the 7th year, I found a screwdriver and first dug it into my skin then dragged it across my wrist. I didn’t draw blood. Then when that didn’t hurt anymore I used scissors, but they weren’t sharp enough. I knew someone who cut themselves; she had bought some sharpener blades to school so I took one from her and used that, seeing blood made me feel sickly happy. I learnt how to take out the blades of sharpeners, because I often lost mine. Cutting became a habit. Now in the 10th year doing my GCSE’s more stress, love, hate, bullies, voices, school, friends and the biggest problem of all; me. I want to die. I wish I had the guts to.

Why I Am Who I Am

Copyright, Claire

The only self harm I have done in about eight weeks, is two scratches on my arm, but not bad, just surface scratches, which have gone a day later. But this got me thinking about it all again. I have SH’ed for six years now, and have only just started to want to stop. People close to me have wanted me to, my parents, cousin, other family, and close friend who knew, but I didn’t want to, which was the important factor in stopping. I did try to for them, but I just couldn’t — I didn’t want to. SH made me feel better, gave me control. It took away my anger. Whether that is right or wrong, well who is to judge. I now have a boyfriend who knows all about me, and my past. He understands that it is a part of me, and always will be because of the scars. I am not proud of them, but I have just let him into it and will allow myself to wear a short top and skirt and stuff, and he has seen my scars, but it also helped, because it showed him more the extent of my SH. I was with him when I scratch myself. He has been the one who has made me want to stop. I know it isn’t easy for him or me. It hurts him if I say I want to, but he is pleased when I haven’t. Not that that has always been easy. I haven’t let the scratch bother me, get me down or back into the cycle, where I used to SH everyday, but if the marks were still scabby, I’d just scratch using my nails. The worse I felt the more I did.

Although the scars do bother me, they have and are making me who I am. It makes me more understanding, and I tend not to judge as much. It makes me think before I do… sometimes. It makes me grateful for still being here, and most days being alive. I overdosed seriously twice in the past, and self harm stopped me from doing it more.

Now, yeah I am better, but it is still part of me. Guess that is why I started looking on the internet for info and other stuff again. And I have thought about it a lot, and yeah I thought I did want to, but I don’t want to more after all this time, and that is what I need to keep sight of.

If I can do it, many more of us can I’m sure. Though I know there are people who are worse than me, and than I were, but somewhere soon, you will find a reason to stop, a reason that makes you want to stop, for you. And only when you want to stop will you, and if like me, you have a little relapse — don’t let it get you down — move on. It can be done. Believe in yourself.

Update on how I Have Managed to Do

I first wrote “Why I Am Who I Am” and I told you of my struggle to stop SH, well it is at least four months since then, and I can proudly say that I haven’t SH’ed since eight weeks before, when I told you about the little surface scratches. I am not saying that it has been easy for me, because it has been the complete opposite. The worse times are when I fall out or am angry at my boyfriend, because it’s like “well, your the one that made me want to stop, and if you are going to hurt me then what is the point.” But he doesn’t know this, because then I would be using SH to get at him, and I don’t and I know SH isn’t about hurting people. He just believed in me I guess. It has been hard — for him too, like sometimes when I have been low, I think he thinks I have “done something” and he will say something to me, and I’ll be like “well, look, if you don’t believe me” then he feels bad, and says that he doesn’t mean it like that and he trusts me not to. Recently I have really wanted to and I have told him rather than doing anything, and that has been really hard, because all I want to do is cut, because I know for that short time, it will make me feel better, though I know because I have managed to stop for so long I will feel much worse after, and so will need to do it more and more to take away the guilt, because SH took away my feelings — temporarily.

I think I have come a long way and I am proud of my self — just as any of you should be if you have managed to stop or do it less often. So OK, I have managed to stop for now, but it’s not been easy, not by a long shot, and I guess the hardest thing is looking at all the everyday things I would use. But then I look at the achievement I have made and the trust people now have in me, and yeah it is worth it. And at least now I don’t have to wear long tops in the summer, and everyone who matters to me knows and doesn’t judge me, so I can relax wearing when I want to, and the people who don’t know, who might stare and judge, well that is just a risk I have to take, and on good days, like today, I don’t care what they think, because it is only the people who are important to me who matter.

I hope you all manage to do whatever you want to, and if you can’t stop right now, then please try again another time, one day the time will be right for you. And remember, you will only succeed in stopping if you really want to, not because others want you to, not because you think you should, but because you want you to. Don’t be ashamed of your scars — they make you the person you are now, they make you strong and one day confident.

Another Update

OK, so I have already given you guys an update, but that was a while ago, and I hope that you don’t mind if I post again. So OK, I have basically stopped self-harming now, I have finished and been discharged from my counsellor, but the need to self-harm is still there, and I was doing really well keeping stopped, but then something happened, and I slipped back in to my old ways, and I cut a little — well scratched really, but it was still doing it again, I was really angry that I’d done it again, but it actually did help me, it relieved the tension that had built up inside of me, and I guess I actually did feel better about things, it sort of cleared my head, but then reality hit and I realised what this could potentially mean for me, but I were determined not to go back to the stage where I did it at least once a day, and so I moved on. I did tell my boyfriend, but wouldn’t let him see it when he asked, though he saw it when he caught me off guard, and that hurt the most — him seeing it, he has seen the scars, but the cut is different, but he just pretended he hadn’t. Anyway, I guess things carried on like that for a while, but inside I still wasn’t happy, things were still getting to me and upsetting me, but really I know there were no reason, there wasn’t anything “wrong” as such in my life. But then I did it again, and this time I didn’t want to stop, I wanted to carry on and on, and that scared me big style, so I told my boyfriend and asked him for his help. I think he understands, I try to tell him when I feel the need, and I either stay at his house or he stays with me till I have worn myself out and haven’t the energy to do anything. Without him, my arms wouldn’t be worth anything. Now, I feel a bit better about things, I feel it easier to talk to him and know that I have to be careful because of work. I work at the local hospital and my uniform is short sleeved, and people just aren’t stupid. So I know there is other places, but I think now is the time to move on. It isn’t easy, and it never will be, but now I’m prepared to fight the battle. Sorry for this, but it has helped to get it off my chest a bit. Contact me if you want.

Access Denied

Copyright, Claire

This is like a story/person account of my feelings when I see a band.

The best is saved for last.

I ravish the music as if I am hungry for more pleasing substances. Like drugs, blades or love. Struck together in one angry chord and I am alive. I don’t think of the pain I am feeling. My insides are fresh with being and majestic with happiness. This is the most happiness I have felt in years. Maybe forever. I think it is. I don’t despise the atmosphere, I’m so glad to be here. Here in this darkened room. The only noise coming from the band that stands before me.

‘You’ve gone and saved my life a thousand times before, I can’t live up to that, neither repay you.’

And you have.

The words of a song so small. Thirteen minutes of pure teenage angst and it feels stunning. A shock of anticipation. A musical roundabout of an adrenaline trip.

I want for this to never end. I don’t want to go back to the dark soul that I am in reality. The defenceless, limp, lifeless broken soul in that grossly, cut body. The person who nobody could understand. The leftovers. Garbage not even considered to be disposed of. The girl whom no boy would ask on dates.

It was never meant to be like this.

I could have become a more subsequent person but I’m sorry my dear parents, I’m not. But I won’t blame you. I’ll always blame the life I had. What I did to become of this depressive living? I’ll think at my worst of times, when you neglected me. You never truly loved me. You never said those three simple words. Simple to me, but not to you. Never. And that is the only thing I’ll ever hate you for. I won’t hate you for not giving me extra allowance. Never for the stupid things in life. Only for the words I wanted to hear when I was a child. I had to repeat them to myself to make them stay in my head. I never succeeded. I grew up being a lost person inside this shell. But still, but still after all these years, I won’t blame you.

My words cannot describe it all. Everything I write is just a quarter of what I feel. If the blackness were to stop, I’d be able to breathe once again. The first time I received a blade close to my skin, the crimson tears ran down my skin. They stained the white bedsheets. The blood was my life. It was pretty to look at. In all its rose petal appearance. Rose petals gathered so quickly after that first stroke though. I wanted more. More of the absurd sensual feeling I got from that blade. I had no bandages to make the cuts invisible from view. I had to hastily cover my arms up, quickly before anyone could intrude. I made a barrier between me and other people. A password to access my feelings. The password is so meaningful to me. It’s so precious. Nobody has yet guessed what it is though.

I’ll never mean to drive myself over the edge. It never happens physically of course. I’ll never let it. I’m going to try to not let that happen. The emotionally side of it though is a state of illusion.

I lie.

It’s such a burden that I feel I cannot carry on anymore. But I’m not going without a fight. I’m going to battle this face to face. It’s not going to let me suffer in silence. Silence is what has held me all my life. I’m going to break this cycle.

The shock reality of hating to be this person is delusional. I can’t say it. I’m afraid to choke on the obscene words of disgrace to my heritage. Everything I am. Everything I’ve become. I dislike it intensively.

I hate myself. But I’m not prepared to die.

It’s ended.

The band pack up and leave the stage. My moral substitutes have lessened and I sadden as I fade back into the darkness.


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