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I’ve been a cutter since I was 14, I am now 19 and have decided that I want to stop. I started cutting because my stepdad was abusive and my mom was never home. I used a safety pin one night to make scratches on my arms. I felt so much better and since then it’s gone from there.


I cut when my mother and I get into our yelling spats. I have this overwhelming urge to pick up something and to run it across my skin. To draw blood and control pain. I was molested by my brother. And my mother got him counceling. Not me. I was ignored everytime I asked. I wanted to talk to someone, but time and again I had a religous mantra thrown at me. Forgive him. Forget.

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Cutting, for me, first started as an obsession about seeing blood and hurting myself. Any little thing would set me off and I could imagine slitting my wrists. I began to dig my nails into my skin and pinching myself so that there would be deep marks indented in them that I could see for days. I didn’t and still don’t think of this as SI, but I think it was the beginning. At first I wouldn’t let myself cross the line into cutting. I would see a knife and I could imagine myself drawing it over my skin, and I would imagine the blood that would come out. I knew that something was wrong with me so I told my parents that I was sometimes a little depressed, but I didn’t tell them that I wanted to hurt myself. They, of course, removed me from what they thought of as the thing that triggered me: School. But they didn’t take me to a psychologist even though they talked about it for a while.

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It’s hard to begin when I’m not even sure myself. All I know is where I am, and how I am both disgusted and surprised I got here.

I’m on anti-depressants, pills for my skin, pills for nervous exhaustion and disability. I’m on herbal tablets, cigarettes and not much else.

This website is about self-harm and suicide. One I do daily, the other I tried and sadly woke up from.

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It takes a lot to admit it to myself. It’s easy enough to talk sometimes but it never sunk in what I could do to myself. It was just blood. I cut deeper than I meant to over the new year, I saw my veins and that scared me. It’s an unreal sensation, the release I get from SI mixed with fear, but also a want to cut deeper and end it all.

I couldn’t end it all, I thought that made me weak and gutless. It doesn’t, it makes me strong. Dying is the easy way out.

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I’ve been SI’ing since I was seven years old. It started out with scratching till I bled, and then, my dad gave me his old boy scout pocket knife. I would look at it and be proud he gave it to me, since I am a girl. One day I cleaned it off and just started sawing away at my leg. It seemed like a natural impulse: Something that I couldn’t control. It went on, from dull, old pocket knives to scissors and eventually an X-ACTO knife. Later I discovered the use of duct tape to make the cut larger with less work. Everything goes downward. The cuts get deeper and the blood level rises.

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