Copyright Colleen

I started cutting about three years ago. I’m fourteen now. I think I started because one of my friends did and was telling me how much better she felt afterwards. I hadn’t been having such a great life at the time either, my father is mentally abusive and his version of punishment borders on being physically abusive. So I decided to try it. I broke a disposable razor that night and held it above my wrist for a few moments trying to decide if I really wanted to do this. I did. My first cuts were more like scratches, long but hardly deep at all. As time went by I realised that my veins weren’t as close to my skin as I had thought at first and that I could cut deeper. Things got better for a while so I stopped cutting, but started smoking. Don’t ask where a twelve year old got cigarettes, but I did, you can find anything for a price here. Then school let out and I had to stop smoking. I had just had a really nasty break up with a guy that I now hate but thought I was in love with at the time. I started cutting his name on any part of me I could think of. I still have it scarred on my hips (along with a rose but that’s from last summer), my stomach, and it just faded out on my arm. I finally got over him and stopped cutting as much but my dad got worse and so did my cutting. All through 8th grade I worried that someone would see my cuts and tell my mom. I didn’t want to hurt her, just me. At the beginning of 8th grade, I lost all interest in everything that had ever interested me. (Except guys but what could you expect from a thirteen year old?) I became suicidal and attempted it more times than I can remember. I knew I wouldn’t actually do it once I started but I’d still get these intense feelings that it just wasn’t worth it any more. I stayed like that the whole year. I started smoking again, got high every now and then, and started doing things with guys that I’d sworn I’d never do. Getting high and being with guys kept my mind off my home problems and kept me from killing myself more than once. Then summer came and my dad started getting the closest to abuse that he ever had before. I tried to kill myself in a way that there was no turning back. I grabbed a handful of random pills from my stash and downed all of them in about three minutes. I’d forgotten that some of them were drugs and most were pain killers, so I just got stoned. I’m still cutting. I love the pain and the taste of my life’s blood. I burn myself as well. That pain is more intense and doesn’t leave scars. Sometimes I want to get help, but usually I just want to be left alone and be able to cut and suffer in peace.


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