My Story of SI

Copyright Dani

I can’t remember what it was like not to be like this — cutting the way I do. I can’t look at a single limb on my body and not see the results of my self-injury. I’m fifteen. I lived in a household with an emotionally unstable mother, distant father, and a lot of anger. My grandmother died the same month my parents split up, and it put a lot of impact on me. I was almost twelve years old. That’s when it started. I don’t know how the idea of cutting had gotten into my head. I mean, it’s not an average thought for a twelve year old to have. It had started small — jabbing safety pins into my skin without even drawing blood, but then it got worse. Things escalated at home — my habitual self-injury got worse. Things had been basically steady for a while, but then when I was thirteen, I was molested by a friend of my then-boyfriend. I didn’t tell anyone — I kept it inside me, expressing my anguish through the cuts in my left forearm. I didn’t even tell my boyfriend (who I had been very happy with at the time) — I dumped him and distanced myself from everyone else I knew. A friend found out upon seeing the scars, and she never told anyone. But I hated knowing that someone else knew. This was meant to be my treat to myself — my special little secret. Three years have passed since I first started cutting. I’ve yet to stop, and the thing that scares me is: I don’t want to.


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