Copyright Erica

I’ve been a cutter for a year and two months. I was so far in deep addicted to it. Everyday I’d cut. I started with my thighs and then landed on my wrists. I have ten scars total on my wrists. Only six are real visable. All day I’d sit in my room and cut in the same cut. My first real major cut was so deep I could put centimeters of my pinkey in it. Then on my other wrist I could put a tip of my pinkey in. They were suicide cuts. I knew they were bad so I didn’t let my parents know or see them, or they’d hospitalise me or freak out. Everyday all day I’d isolate myself in my room with the door locked, and I’d just harm myself. My friends called me stupid, said ‘oh, that’s so 7th grade’, and didn’t give a rip about how bad I harmed myself. I got so sick of hiding my cuts from people, that I started to cut and burn on my hands. And yet nobody cared. I whanted them to care so I could have someone so I knew people did actualy care about me. I stoppped cutting all by myself. I stopped being suicidal all by myself. Friends know about me, parents know, pastures, and church leaders know, by my cutting and burning, from my scars I know who my true friends are, who my trues are. Only a couple of friends have checked up on me. I’ve been self-harm free for a good three months with an exeption for five scratches I’ve done.

I have PTSD and it gets pretty rough to where I get urges to harm myself but I let time take those urges away. I’ve taught myself because I learned I only have myself. No other person can save me, always be there, watch me, and I can’t rely on people to do those things for me. Me and my friends are fading apart so I’m all I’ve got.


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