This Is Me

Copyright, Heather

I’m Heather. I have been cutting for like four years now and I still do it to feel the pain. It is my worst habit. I hate it so much that I love it. I want it and want it and can’t live without it. They have me on medication because I am bipolar and I have split personality disorder but it still doesn’t work because I still do it. I’ve tried getting help but nobody listens. I also have an eating disorder. I hate myself more than other people hate me and all my friends hate what I do. I thought I would just let everyone out there now that they have other people who do things just like them.


Copyright, Heather

My name is Heather and I have been self injuring for over seven years now. I’m currently seventeen.

I never really had a father. He was always too drunk to call and say he’d be late on Christmas or he just didn’t feel the importance in calling at all. So here I was, a fragile five year old, staring out our huge living room window, waiting for daddy until 9 p.m. Or maybe, here’s me out on the front lawn crying till 10:30 p.m. waiting for daddy and succumbing to my mom dragging me inside with all she had. This was my childhood in a nutshell. All this chaos, all this abandonment, left me with some serious mental scars; I have terrible attachment issues. If someone is more than thirty seconds late to pick me up, call me, whatever, I freak out and blame them for forgetting me. Or if someone doesn’t acknowledge me every second of the day, I feel forgotten. All because of my drunken father.

When I was ten, my best friend and cousin, Jason, died in a car accident at the age of twenty-one. And since I never had a father, he was my role model. He still is today. And when he died, my life was shattered. I didn’t have that support, that structure, any longer. It was gone, forever. All I had was a cold headstone that couldn’t feel, hear or help. It was hell.

This is when I started cutting. Maybe only one little scratch with a safety pin. No blood, just that burning sensation. That’s all I needed.

When I was twelve, my mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis; a disease of the brain where the brain eats itself away. Her disease left her horribly weak and numb. And bitchy. She took her stress out on me. “Heather, help me do the laundry, you lazy cunt!” “Heather, I can’t fucking reach this, get it!” And it’s the same way today. Same stress. She blames her flare ups (when her MS gets really bad) on me. “Your bullshit doesn’t help my flare up!” “Heather, shut up. No wonder I feel like shit!” Honestly, is it all my fault? After every fight, after every scream, into my room I go and open up my little locker and choose a razor (I have over twenty-five), turn my lamp on, get a towel and have at my arm, leg, stomach, chest, whatever. But now, the cuts aren’t these little scratches anymore. These are deep, gaping wounds that needed stitches. But I can’t get them because I’ll get sent away. Again.

I went to the psych ward in November of 2003. For three weeks. Helped for about two months after release. Then it went back to normal. On February 23 of 2004, I attempted suicide. A pathetic little cut, deep enough to bleed a lot, but not fatal. Hell, it was done bleeding before the ambulance even got there. That’s right. I got so terrified of dying I called 911. I should also say, since I’ve mentioned death, I have a phobia of death. Not of dead things, but of my death. I guess because I learnt about death not through a dead animal, but through Jason, it’s different. This little act got me sent away for two months and five days. It sucked.

And who could forget Michael? I dated him for over three years. He’s my best friend. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him. He’s, basically, in the same situation I am. He’s been institutionalised three times and he’s only cut a few times. Even though we aren’t dating anymore, he’s there for me no matter what.

To this day, stress is still a huge part of my life. I just recently came out as a lesbian and college is coming up. I cut about once a month. But it varies. It’s always kind of bad, depending on the anger. I am left with permanent scars all over my body. Big, pink and white raised ones. You can’t miss them. I don’t think I’ll ever fully quit. And I’m not sure I want to. I guess we’ll see what comes my way.

In Memory of a Friend

Copyright, Heather

Everyone had always said that my life is insane. They say that I am a strong, brave 15-year-old to have gone through everything I have and to turn out all right. But I’m not alright. I wear long sleeves everyday. I smear my blood on drawings of my friend’s grave. I cry myself to sleep every night. I don’t necessarily want to die, I just don’t want to live anymore. And the thought of that terrifies me. Suicide used to seem like a really friendly idea, until my friend Grace died.

Anyways, let me start at the beginning.

Growing up, I thought everything was normal. My parents were married, with four kids, one boy and three girls, with me being the middle girl. We lived in a low crime neighbourhood, money didn’t fall off trees, but it was never a problem. But then I started to realise that my dad was really aggressive. He would yell a lot, swing his hands toward us to scare us, threaten us. Then his hands began to swing too quickly for us to jump back, and we began getting hit. By the time I was ten, my mom had found out and my father was out of the house.

The divorce was a nasty one, both of my parents whispering disgusting things about their spouse. I felt all of these emotions, but being ten, I didn’t know how to express them. Until I got a really awesome teacher that introduced me to writing. And that became my passion. Through my mom’s drinking and drug use, through her constant string of internet boyfriends, I was able to create stories about people who didn’t go through what I was going through. They had amazing lives, with foreign places and mysterious enchantresses. When I was twelve, I won a huge award for an essay — grand prize winner out of the entire state. I had finally found my passion and was gaining respect for my craft.

But we moved, and I had to go away 150 miles for Junior High. My mom had met someone on the Internet that actually talked and had sex with her. I enjoyed our new town, I met a lot of people, and the classes seemed really easy to me. I focused on school and friends, meeting three people who I became really close to, my boyfriend Jason and my best friends Bre and Grace. My mom’s new boyfriend, Bob, came and went, never staying close to home.

I wanted to please my new friends, so I started dieting. And being the perfectionist that I am, it got out of control. By the time I had reached thirteen, I was severely underweight (almost anorexic but not quite), drinking, and smoking. I had broken up with Jason, and my mom was spiralling out of control. She was never sober, she was very emotional, and she would lie about anything to get herself attention. By the time eight grade came around, she tried to kill herself. And then again. And then again. Between pulling knives out of her hands, or dodging bullets (literally) from her loaded gun, life became hell.

My grades were dropping (the previous year I had pulled off a 4.0, perfect grades for you non-Americans). At school, a teacher had heard about what was going on, and told my counsellor. She called me in, and I told her everything. She called Child Protective Services, and a week later, my older sister was 150 miles away with my Aunt, and my little sister and I were in foster care. These people took away my religion (Paganism, a very beautiful belief) my friends (not allowed to go out at all) and forced me to go to church.

For four months we lived with them, growing further and further apart from my friends. Then, at a visit with my mom, five days away from going home, she got drunk again and I called the cops. My father was contacted, and I had to move a thousand miles away from my beloved city to the horrible place formally known as California (highly not recommended).

The stress of being away from all of my friends, the idea of being stuck in the hell hole, and severe depression made me not want to live. I attempted to kill myself, but took too few of the pills, and only woke up with a splitting headache. My family never found out. My father couldn’t take care of my sister and I, and I had to become the parent.

So one day, I was cleaning my sister’s half of the room, and I noticed a little piece of broken plastic. I grabbed it, and without knowing why, ran it along the inside of my arm. A little red line appeared, and I was hooked. For a year I cut, at that time being fifteen. I told my friends about it, and, instead of helping me, they started too. It was contagious.

I began to stop, trying to think of better things then self harm. Then Grace died. I hadn’t been talking to anyone from my old home. I had been putting it off, never really getting around to it. No one knew what did it. We all thought it was suicide, because she had attempted before. My life came crashing down. She was fifteen years old, her whole life was in front of her. I felt so guilty, like I should have called her more, written her, done something. I started by carving her name into my arm. Then other words. Guilty. Pain. Death. Nevermore. I couldn’t believe it. That was two months ago. Now I cut uncontrollably. I can’t go a day without it. And I feel like I have no one to talk to. The only friends that knew her too are a thousand miles away. I told my dad about my cutting, but he doesn’t care at all. I have nowhere to go, I just need someone to talk to. Please help me stop. Please save me.

Thank you for reading.

How It Started

Copyright, Heather

My name is Heather. I started SI December of 2003. I’m 13 years old and I’m still SI’ing. It all started on accident… My life was a mess… I was the middle child… We all had different dads… Except I didn’t know where the heck my dad was, I was the unloved one.

Being the middle child sucked big time. My older sister was the first born, my younger brother the last born… and me… just dropped off so my mom can yell at something. I don’t get all the hand me downs… my sister is a pack rat…

My grades are sloping… I’m in the easiest math class and I’m getting a D. I get uncomfortable around older guys because I have a suspicion my dad did something to me… long story. And to top it all off with a cherry… more like a poisonous one… I’m fat and half the school hates me…

I’m also stuck with the fear that so many people know about me and that they might tell. You never know… friends one day, enemies the next.

I don’t know if I will ever stop. I have a feeling I wanna stop… but I need strong help. I may continue for years, I may not… but just to tell everyone who feels like starting… don’t. It doesn’t solve anything, and it’s addictive.


Copyright, Heather

I’m Heather and I’m 14. I’ve been depressed for about, wow, 6 years now. Yes, most people don’t believe me. “Oh, you were only 8, you didn’t know any better.” Yes, I did. My first suicide attempt was at age 8. It was with my mother’s razor in the shower. I cut my arm from about an inch below my shoulder down a good 4-5 inches. I then realised, “Hey, this won’t kill me.” I got out of the shower and showed my mom. She just cleaned it up; I told her it was an accident, the razor was on the shelf and I scraped my arm on it. She bought it. When I was younger I did a lot more of the head banging on walls, pinching myself, biting myself, but once I got older I started OD’ing on pills, and cutting more often. My biggest OD’ing job was 16 pills in 6 hours. I’m scared of myself and what I can do. In school I was always the smart one, and the outcast. I truly was hated. I even moved trying to get away from all of that. 8th grade was torture being abused and threatened at school daily. Like I said, I’m 14 now, and no one in my family has caught on. It’s sad… and it hurts. Do they not care? I want help; I need help, but I’m afraid. My mother is a child psychologist (yes, I know, I know, the irony) and my mom always says how stupid it is for people to hurt themselves and want to kill themselves. How do I talk to a woman like that? She says stuff like that right to me. How do I get help? Will I ever get help? Who knows.

Was it Good for You?

Copyright, Heather, original location

I can still remember where I was the first time I cut myself. I was living at my parent’s house at the age of 16 at 203 E. Fillmore Street in Tempe (which I have since returned to several times only to find whoever is living there now has ripped out the lovely evergreen hedges that surrounded the front yard and what was once beautiful green grass has now been replaced with disgusting orange gravel) doing my homework (a rare occurrence). My father, who by all accounts was a wonderful man, very loving but very stern and watched my every move like a hawk waiting to pounce on a field mouse, had just grounded me or something. I loved my father, but he was incredibly protective of me. Example: My first date was after he died. I felt that I needed some control. I don’t know what made me do it, really. I had never heard of anyone carving into their body before. So I gave it a shot. I carved EMPIRE into my left arm with a pen cap. My parents never saw it, which was a mystery to me. I wore short sleeved shirts most of the time (it was summer in Arizona, for Christ’s sake). The next day at school one of my friends asked me why I did it. I said I didn’t know. The day after that he came back to school with the word joint carved into his arm. This was extremely disturbing. I didn’t want to think that I had started some sort of weird fad. So I didn’t do it for a long time after that. Even after my dad died. I didn’t start real cutting again until I was about 20. I guess I was trying to be creative carving different words into my arms. I carved Help one time, Jesus another time. The last time I carved a word into my arm I was 22. I had just come back from a Christmas party and in a drunken stupor carved please into my arm. I have never remembered seeing so much blood before in my life. It was dripping onto my friend’s carpet. She caught me and dragged me into the bathroom to clean it up. I have never talked to her since. The morning after I had to go to the ER to get a tetanus shot since I couldn’t remember what kind of blade I used. All I remembered was that it was old and possibly rusty. The triage nurse asked me what happened to my arm. I just explained I was drunk and did something stupid. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

It wasn’t until I was about 23 that I started seeing these stories on 20/20 about people cutting themselves up. If anything, I was relieved that I finally wasn’t the only one doing this to my body. There are many people out there just like me. Thank God. I don’t feel so alone.

Anyway, since then I have given up carving in words. I just stick to straight slash marks since those are much easier to explain. I am still cutting. I just now finished cutting a few lines into my arms. I’m not sick. I am not a freak. I just can’t let myself go.


Copyright, Heather

The first time I cut was a day after school. One of my best friends was mad at me and I had nowhere else to turn. I took my razor and made a cut on my arm. It was extremely calming and I was OK for a while.

When it healed, my life started to fall apart. I realised I will never have anything or anyone true in my life and I still feel that way.

A couple of my friends found out and told the school guidance counsellor on me. I wasn’t really mad at them, just scared. Scared about what my parents would say.

My parents weren’t mad, just surprised. I am now not allowed to shave. I go in the bathroom sometimes just to sit and think, because it is the only quiet place in my very small house. My parents get suspicious if I spend more than 10 minutes in there.

I went to a dance a couple of weeks ago. I started to cry. I was really upset. I then cried harder because I could do nothing. Cutting was my way out. I am now going through a depression. I need to cut again. I may go insane if I don’t.


Copyright, Heather

I am almost 15 and have been through so much already (have been cutting and overdosing since I was seven or eight. I don’t remember). I am/was a very good student and wish someone could help me. I don’t know how to explain what I do because every time I try, something else gets taken away. I have almost seen my mom die so many times. Suicidal depression runs in my family, and I use it as my hobby. My grandfather and his stepson have committed suicide. My mother has tried, and I watched one girl die in my arms. I like watching the velvet rivers flow down my arms and legs. People ask why and tell me not to. They don’t get it. I have been a straight A, beautiful creation since I was born. I am very talented with my hair, and unless people get to know me, I am an idolised perfectionist. I feel horrible most of the time because I feel unaccepted. In my Hotmail profile is a picture. I have ruined myself so much. Cut and dyed my hair, ruined my body destroyed mine and my family’s lives. Will someone understand? I only want my family’s help, but they don’t want to. I love them so much and want to just get away from it all. I ruin every relationship because of my unstable emotional status. Just let me die. Why can’t they just let me go?

Spirit of Satan, God of hell, I wish your were here so I could repel. I will not let these thoughts complete me, I will not let you live concretely.

I love writing, and blood, but only my own.

Sick Cycle Carousel

Copyright, Heather

I have wanted to write this for so long. Finally gonna push myself to do it. It’s just thinking back on everything, remembering everything, just gives me a headache. I really want to, for myself. To have it all, here written out, so I won’t forget, don’t think that I could. Or maybe it’s so I can forget, get it all out of my mind. Whatever the reason, here’s my story.

I can not remember the first time I really did it. And as hard as I think I cannot remember how the thought, or idea even came to me. All I do remember is sitting on my bed listening to the radio. About 6th grade, beginning I believe. I am not too sure if it was 6th grade, or the summer of 5th grade. It just seems so young, 5th grade. Eleven years old. Wow. But the idea of it being 6th grade isn’t strange, it just seems so different, elementary to middle school. But never the less. While listening to commercials on BLI, I heard one for a movie on Lifetime. (Now how often to you hear commercials like that on BLI?) It was a movie, and for as long as I can remember I have been trying to remember the name of it, but it was a movie about a girl who cut herself. The minute I heard “cut” my ears perked. I obviously had known about it, and thought about it before I heard the commercial, but had never done it. So I went over and over in my head when it was so I wouldn’t forget. I had to watch it. So the day it was on, it had to be summer because I remember specifically we were having a barbecue that night. So I watched bits and pieces of it. I had missed the beginning. I can’t really remember the entire movie, just specific parts. It was basically about a girl who obviously cut herself. I believe her parents were divorced. No one in school liked her, they all thought she was a “freak” because of her problem. They all made fun of it making comments like, “why don’t you go slice yourself up” crap like that. Which for the record is not true. No time in my life have I ever heard someone make such a comment, making it comical, like that. No one is that cruel. I remember specific parts. At one point the girl was sitting in her room, which for some odd reason I can remember what it looks like exactly (I remember the stupidest most minuscule things). Her brother was mad at her for making their parents mad, so he said, “next time you cut yourself I hope you die.” Nice right? One part that I think did it for me, my “trigger” I guess you could say, was one part when she was in a bathroom. It was after she had sex with these two guys, something like that. But anyway, she was in the bathroom and opened up a cabinet and took out a box cutter. She stood in front of the mirror and started to cut her stomach. After that she was in the hospital getting stitches, of course that part did affect me. So some time after that my mom called me down for dinner. I remember being so annoyed because I didn’t get to finish seeing the movie. So all during dinner I thought about it. I ate dinner as fast as I could and ran back upstairs hoping it was still on, I think I caught the end of it, not too sure. But I remember thinking, “the box cutter, I have one of those.” So jump to the next day. I am home by myself. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I walk down into my parent’s room, rummage through a box my dad has by his TV. Find a box cutter. I probably only stood there for all of five minutes, but it definitely felt longer. So I thought, stared at it, thought and then eventually pushed it down into my thumb. Quick sting of pain, I quickly pull it away. Of course it didn’t bleed, the skin on your thumb is so thick, all I had was a deep slit, but not deep enough for blood. That was enough for me, I freaked, threw it back into the box and ran upstairs to my room. I probably sat on my bed for an hour staring at my thumb and thinking about what I had just attempted to do, what I had done. So that was the first time I did it. Again, I can’t remember the next time after that. It was nothing then though, I was just “getting into it.” Nothing compared to now of course, I can thank Dom for introducing me to shaving razors. No, no my instrument at the time was scissors. Which I thought to be quite clever and well thought out. It at least didn’t hurt too much. Don’t even know why I did it. Uh-oh, bad day, where the fuck are my scissors? Ah here we are… close my eyes, with what seemed against my will, push down. Ow, damn it. Pull away, in rage for it (I always liked to add some drama to it, was and wasn’t intentional) throw it back into the desk. Stare at it, just red puffiness. Pull at my arm (upper side of the arm at this point, remember I was in 6th grade) bleed, bleed, please make something there, it hurt what the hell. Ah, a dot, there we go. Good enough. There was some pride in those, some pride, some regret, but I would constantly be aware of them (which I still do) I remember sitting in the car on the way to bowling one morning, I am almost positive with Ashley. Sitting there with my left arm out, looking at it wondering, “does she notice, does she know, does she think it is just a normal cut?” I would almost be trying to get people to ask. Making sure my arm was out, with it in visible sight. I also remember the first time I saw something about self injury online. I was on, I may have even been looking for stuff on self injury, voila, a question and answer. Question: “My friend recently cut herself, she showed me and she keeps doing it, is this a problem, should I get her help?” Answer: (Laughs, how many times do I read stuff like this now, and just want to laugh, laugh at damn therapists, laugh at “mental illness”.) “Yes, get your friend help. You have to tell someone, a parent, a teacher, a guidance counsellor. Cutting, or self injury is a big problem. This includes, cutting, burning, or bruising arms, legs and other parts of the body. This can be to form words, pictures, or just a plain cut.” I remember it catching my eye because while reading it I wasn’t really “relating” to it, if you know what I mean. But then I read “to form words” I had cut something into my arm, not a word but it was something. I opened my eyes wider, kept reading. “This is me. This explains me.” So 6th grade, cutting here and there. A lot I guess you could say, at least for then it was. Nothing big though (although I have never done anything that extreme). So me with my little scissors, little twelve year old me cutting myself with scissors. I don’t remember much of the rest of 6th with that really. So skip to 7th grade. Interesting I guess you could say. This is the year I learnt to hate guidance counsellors, they became quite intimidating. But I will get into that. So my best friend (use to be) Dom had my little “problem” also. It was the strangest way that we told each other we did it. Again I can’t remember what year, I believe end of 6th though. So one day while hanging out she just says out of no where, “have you ever cut yourself?” Um, what? “Uh, have you?” Cue Dom pulling up her sleeve. (Note hers was worse then I had ever done or thought of doing.) “Uh, yeah, I have.” Cue me pulling up my sleeve, nothing really being there just a faded nothing scar that could have been from anything. One of those scars that would go away in a week. “So when did you start doing this?” “I don’t know. A couple of months ago.” “Why?” “I don’t know, why did you?” So that is how Dom found out. So 7th grade me and Dom went through this “together”. I remember every time we hung out we would be in the midst of talking. She would stop, stare at me and then either grab my arm or say, “have you done it?” Then like a child I would have to pull up my sleeve and show her the blankness on my arm, every once in a while there being something, usually when there was she either didn’t ask or I had told her about it. I didn’t do it even close to as frequently as her. Usually when she would ask me if I did it, that was a tip off that she had and I wanted me to ask her. After she would ask me, I would ask her, she would look away, pull her arm up to her chest. I would have to pull it to me and pull up her sleeve. Seeing the several different cuts. I never really wanted to know when she cut. It’s not that I didn’t care, I just didn’t want to know when she did. I guess I was too “involved” in my own to think about hers. For some reason her doing it never phased me much. Maybe because I had “grown up” with it along with her, so it was just “normal” to me. So this was the year I actually started to “think” about it. When I didn’t just flair my arms trying to point them out. I don’t think I was at the point of being ashamed. I was still in that sick sense proud of it. I was just more aware of the consequence of someone finding out. And I learnt early to be quite frightened of that. So I still had my scissors. Dom had told me how she did it, shaving razor. I still used my little scissors though. I had advanced to the inner upper arm though, but mostly still upper. Sometime early in 7th grade though I began the shaving razor. Me and Dom were doing something with witchcraft. (You know you all had your friends that you did strange things with, that’s your “best friend”. Dom was that, so don’t think I am too strange here.) So it was something where you had to put a drop of your blood into clay. So of course me and Dom had no problem with just you know, doing this in front of one another, she was of course more “OK” with it then me. (As you can see, Dom was the more outgoing, dominant one of the two of us.) So I go into my bathroom under the cabinet to get Dom her razor, my scissors safely upstairs. I come back up. So Dom needed water or something, no water, ah this sparkly spray stuff works. Note: Don’t use anything perfume like, stings like hell! So Dom did it, easy two seconds. Then we have me sitting struggling with my scissor. “Just do it with this it’s so much easier.” Grrr. “OK”. Why, it is easier, and also more damaging. So we did our little spell thing (and for the record, it didn’t work, at least to our knowledge, although we tried it twice). I remember that night I had a Christmas party to go to. I remember what I wore to that, baggy khaki pants and a red shirt that said something about a princess on it. So sitting at the Christmas party with my bandaged up arm. Left arm, I remember that specifically for some reason. I remember I would just sit there and push on it every once in a while. Having to feel just a little bit proud of it. It was the most I had ever done, and hey I found a new friend. So 7th grade goes on. Cutting, healing, cutting, healing. So on and so forth. 7th grade wasn’t too bad I suppose. But this makes up for that! It couldn’t have been that much after the Christmas party because first off it was right after we got back from Christmas break, and I remember worrying about my recent one that had been quite visible, luckily it was cleared up before this eventful experience. I have to say, one of the most frightening days of my life (and I had to go through it about three times). So happy me, sitting in art. (I was always happy in school, there is probably only five days a year I will be unhappy in school, I guess just being surrounded by friends, doing something, just makes me happy. I never fake my happiness in school. I hate when people say “oh, I always have to put on a smile when I am not really happy.” Let me tell you, if I am pissed you’ll know it, I don’t try to hide it.) So sitting in art. Someone comes in and says I have to go to the wing 3 office. Hmmm, what could this be for? So walking down the hallway until I get there. There is the school psychiatrist standing there. “Yes?” “Um, I got called down here.” “Oh yes, do you have your things with you, you might be here after this period ends.” “Oh, no let me go get my stuff.” So I walk out of the office, on my way back to the art room to get my bag. What could she want? I don’t think I knew who she was. But then it hit me. What if she says something about the cutting? I was always worried about that, I still am, every time my mom says she has to talk to me I freak. So thinking, I am in a small panic as I make my way to the art room. “They said to get my stuff and go back.” “OK, that’s fine.” So out of the room again, back to the office. Still pondering this. I wasn’t in too much of a panic, “no it can’t be that, I always think it is that, and it never is.” So I get back and the secretary tells me to go into the psychiatrist’s office. There she is, young, blond hair, nice, but so intimidating when you are trying to hide something and you are scared out of your mind, she was really nice though. And sitting in a chair at the other side of the desk was my guidance counsellor (damn those people). He was always pretty cool. Everyone liked him, tall, young, brown hair. He knew most of the kids from sports and stuff (I know he was the track coach). He didn’t know me because first I don’t do sports, and second I never went near the guidance counsellor, I wouldn’t dare. “Hi why don’t you sit down. How are you today” Oh, you have to build up the tension more, just come out and say what you want. “I’m good.” “Good, now someone has come to us and told us something that is concerning them.” Alright. “We were told that you have cut yourself with a paper clip.” Did I forget to mention I have done that a couple of times? “(Saying to myself:) Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… What? Who told you that?” With my quite fake, oh my God what kind of crazy notion face, well played out I have to say. “Well we can’t say who, but they came to us and told us this. Do you know where someone would come up with something like that?” “No, I really don’t.” Guidance counsellor chirps in “someone wouldn’t just say that if they didn’t think something was really wrong.” I wanted to scream and just run out of there. “I really don’t know.” “Can we see your arms?” “Yeah.” I pull up my sleeve, thinking frantically if there is anything there, I know there was, it healed, it’s gone. There is a small one, my watch is covering it. Any scars? Uh, I don’t know. Too late, gotta show. I pull up my sweater and they both lean in and look at my right arm first. That one is nice and clean, now left arm. I am looking just as closely as they are. Damn it, I can see that scar. Can they? Better point it out just in case. “That is from my cats.” “OK. I believe you. Maybe someone was just concerned, just know they were only looking out for you.” “Yeah, I understand.” Guidance counsellor chirping in again, most of the time it just seemed like he was observing me, trying to read my lies, he knew, I know he knew. “Well I have to go, thanks, and if you need to talk I am here.” “OK, thank you”. “The thing is, we do have to call your parents and let them know about this, you understand?” No! This wasn’t enough to put me through, please don’t call them. “Yeah.” She started to write me a pass, but we talked for a little and I remember exactly what about. Thinking yes, small talk, can’t sound too shaken. She asked about my cats, “yeah, I have two, black one and a grey one.” “That’s nice. Wanna hear a funny story?” “Sure.” She told me some story about how the pastor at her church for Christmas wanted to get the kids pets so he got crickets. I did my “yes I am interested” kinda laugh, you know that laugh you do to try to act normal although you are really uncomfortable. So that was over. I was late to science. We were doing some lab where we had to handle all these sea animals, something gross that no one in my group wanted to touch. Being me, I was like give me that, so I held whatever it was. I was so shaken though, so, so, so scared. Who the hell said something. I didn’t even have to ask myself that. I knew it was Dom, no one else knew, and if they did, they wouldn’t have known what I did it with. I was trying to act as normal as I could, I didn’t want anyone to know. Usually when I am uncomfortable and I don’t want anyone to know I act really outgoing, guess not a good cover up, oh well. So my sister drove me and Dom home (Dom was in the high school at this point, 9th grade). So when I got in the car, I explained everything I could explain quietly and in five minutes as I could. So when we got home both my mom and dad were home. I was so scared, I never want to have the feeling I had that day again. I told Dom I would talk to her later and reluctantly went into the house. So my parents sent Kim upstairs and sat me down in the living room, them on the couch, me in the chair. It was the psychiatrist’s office all over again, just ten times worse. All the same questions all the same answers. And hearing my mom ask “can we see your arm” just went right through me. Your parents are just the last people you want to know or even remotely think about you doing this. So I explained to them that I would never do something so “sick”. They explained they were there to talk and so on. And then it was over. The conversation seemed to go on forever, but then we didn’t bring it up again. Fast forward to end of 7th grade. Still cutting. Couldn’t tell you how bad, don’t remember. I do remember one specific one I had done. On my hand. Dom again, had told me about this lovely way. “I ‘burnt’ my hand. I took an eraser and rubbed it on my skin, I just told my mom I burnt it on the stove.” Hmm. Either before or after she told me that I read something in a magazine article. I like idolise this article. It’s called Skin Deep. It was an article in Teen Magazine. I remember getting that magazine that day. Didn’t read it. So then it was before I was going to some girl scout thing. I was sitting in my room with all my Christmas lights on, sitting next to my Christmas tree (yes it does seem that all this happens around Christmas doesn’t it?). So I was looking at the index when I saw, “Skin Deep, a story of secret cutting.” My eyes widened, I frantically flipped to that page and began reading with all of the five minutes I had before I had to leave. Was so happy to find that article, any article I could relate to. At the bottom it had celebs that self injured. Christina Ricci, Fiona Apple, Johnny Depp, Shirley Manson, Angelina Jolie. I remember Shirley Manson and Angelina Jolie struck me. Probably because I liked them both. And I remember thinking, “wow, Angelina Jolie was in Girl Interrupted (just to tell you, great movie, wonderful connections) I wonder if it was hard for her to do that movie because she used to do it.” I didn’t think Girl Interrupted was out then. Oh well, guess it was. Me and Dom lived by that movie, we knew every line to every part. She was Lisa, I was Susanna, or as Dom said “suzie-q”. “But I know what it’s like to wanna die, how it hurts to smile.” So the point to that story was to tell you that I had heard of the eraser thing before Dom told me. At the top of the article it said “I would rub an eraser on my skin to make a raw burn mark.” So I flirted with the idea to do that. I finally did one day sitting on my couch. Don’t remember why, just wanted to. I don’t know. But I did. The thing about those is, you don’t think it’s that bad so you do it again and again, but the next day, it gets worse, just letting you know. So I had this nice big raw skin mark on my hand. That’s the thing, you never think about the next day, what’s gonna happen when you gotta hide this thing. So I used Dom’s excuse, I told Angie and Laura I burnt myself. They believed it. But then I changed my story for my mom. No burning, not believable enough. So get this (yes I did think this was more believable, sad thing was, each and everyone of them bought it no questions asked) I made up a story about falling while walking home and hitting it on the curb. I don’t even think that is physically possible. But they bought it. That’s all that matters right? Still up until today Court points at it and laughs. “Your curb mark.” Uh, it’s hard to laugh along with a lie, you know. So that thing scarred nice and good. Still they’re quite visible today. I did a couple more erasers, liking the fact that it left a large mark I guess. But I guess I figured they were a tad too visible. Smart. Dom was bad with those. She has like two on her hand and two big ones on her arms. I believe one of them actually is a burn, but I was never quite sure. Oh yes, I never finished my guidance counsellor experiences. 7th grade, English was great. I had a pretty good teacher and we got to write poems a lot. I was very poetic that year. I wrote some good stuff too. I remember I would have a new poem like every day. Along with a new page to my story that I was writing that only Dom could see because it was about my “life”. Never finished that book, or the one I started after it, or the one after that. So since I was “oh so poetic” I decided to put stuff into the literary magazine. What made me give her that poem is beyond me. Stupid move. So I gave her this poem called “Me”. Quite depressing. So one day I am in the band room, during my lunch because what better do me, Angie and Laura have to do during lunch but go to the band room and sing? So I see guidance counsellor at the door. Scowl at him. “Hi heather, someone in he lunch room told me you were down here.” Damn that person, “can I talk to you?”

Heart beating at an extremely fast pace, “sure” so Laura and Angie came with me. Went to his office this time. He holds out my poem, “this is a really serious poem.” He was pissing me off. I didn’t feel like dealing with this again. “It’s about my friend. She has been feeling really upset because the guy she likes is giving her problems and stuff. I wrote it for her.” I do believe I said Dom in there, I think that got back to her guidance counsellors and got her into some “trouble”. Damn those people, why are they so well connected with one another? “Are you sure you’re OK?” “Yeah.” “OK, you can go.” Phew. Close one. Yeah, but he knows. But I got away with it OK. Laura and Angie obviously did ask me what it was all about. I told them that I wrote a poem and he thought it was about suicide and stuff. Laura told basically everyone and we just laughed it off. Although I wanted to slap all those people laughing about it. I just didn’t want to even talk about it. I couldn’t stand to go through it again. So a day after I get a letter home in the mail. I always look through letters now, you know, holding it up to the light looking through it, this kinda has me traumatised. So I had a bad feeling about it. So Dom was over. I held it up to the light, my poem was in it. I started to freak out. Dom kept saying, calm down calm down. I had to open it, had to see what was inside. So there was my poem, along with a list of therapists. I freaked. I started hysterically crying I was walking around frantically. I had no clue what to do. I was so freaking scared. So Dom had to leave, she had work she told me “I am so sorry, I really wish I didn’t have to leave you, but I have to go to work, I’ll call you when I get home.” She left and I just sat there. Scared as hell waiting for my mom to get home. When she did I told her I had opened the letter and explained why. She told me she was worried and had asked the guidance counsellor for the list. I told her I had written it for Dom. Again the same scene as the guidance counsellor, convinced her everything was “peachy keen” and things went back to normal. Thank goodness that was the last of the guidance counsellor experiences. Every time I see that guy though I just want to run away and hide, if he remembers me, I know what he remembers me for. So there is my 7th grade. I guess it was pretty bad 7th grade. I mean I never really “associate” it with 6th and 7th, expect for the guidance counsellor stuff. I always associate it with 8th. 8th grade. “Mature cutting” it wasn’t just these little cuts, one on my upper arm. It was now always with the shaving razor, three or four at a time. Different places too. Arms, legs, stomach, shoulders. Shoulders was popular, easy to hide, and never scarred that bad. Anywhere I could hide it. The arms was getting old and difficult to do. It was too often and I didn’t think my mom would believe that my cats cut me up that much on my arms. I mean I was careful when I did my arms. I always used precaution because like I have said, what was and still is my biggest fear is my parents finding out. Horrified of it, I will do anything to hide it from them. So I used much precaution. But I still didn’t think they would believe my cats cut my arm every month or two. So I found new places. Legs were popular too. That was the place I took to after my arms, easy to hide, and cuts on the leg weren’t as strange as on the arms. I think this kinda shows where and that it had taken over my life. I think from moving to different parts of the body, from planning out how I am gonna hide it, when I can do it, when I can’t, this shows where it took over. It was never really “controlling” the arms, you know when you hear people cut themselves they did it on their arms. So that is what I did. Trying to “play by the rules”. But then I had to bend the rules. It was no longer just a game to me. It was my life. It was part of me. It wasn’t just something I choose to have, not just something I could choose to do or not. It was something I couldn’t control. I would say “that was the last time, I swear to it, never again.” A week later, “this, this is the last one” etc. I didn’t have a choice, if I was gonna do it, I was gonna do it, there was no stopping me once it was in my mind. It took me over. It became an addiction. A friggin’ sick addiction. So like I said, I did it in other places, several at a time. I remember loving the shoulder thing in the summer. I could do it and still hide it. I can wear tank tops and you still won’t see. Look at how smart I am. I remember during the play, I had cuts on my stomach. Changing into my costume was a challenge. Not only was a huge prom dress hard to get on, getting it on in a bathroom full of girls without letting them see your stomach is even more of a challenge. And then the fear of it being a light blue dress. Catch my drift.? I was safe on that one. Thank goodness. So Angie finding out. Beth I am pretty sure did it before 8th grade but it all came about to us in 8th grade. Again during Christmas. What is with this damn holiday? Angie didn’t know what to do. She was taking this hard seeing as she was the one Beth had gone too. So I told her I could help. I know I was just itching to get it out to someone. And Angie was my best friend at this point. So I told her to sit with me one day at lunch. So she kept itching to see what I wanted, I kept telling her to wait till everyone got up to get lunch. They all did. So I sat in a little corner and said it. “I used to cut.” “What? Are you serious?” “Used to, so I know a lot about what is going on.” “Where?” I pointed to faded scars, couldn’t really see a thing. She kinda was just silent as everyone came back to the table probably examining my arm thoroughly. Then she pointed to my “curb mark”. I shook my head yes. She just kinda looked away. So I did have to explain my “story” to her short hand version that is. I guess she told Beth, can’t really remember how Beth found out but she did. Beth just asked stuff like, how did you keep that from your parents? They never found out? So then the “Christmas time thing.” We were all really concerned about Beth. It killed Matt to see her like that. Really hit him hard. Angie was just trying to be a help. Jo being critical, and me just sitting there, the biggest hypocrite in the world. I was concerned but knew where she was coming from. The subject kinda hit too close to home for me. So Beth was doing it a little too often and a lot when she did. Probably just as much as me, I just didn’t tell anyone was always open to tell people about my past, always wanted to. But wouldn’t dare tell them that as I was saying “used to” I have one under my sleeve. So Angie said “next time she does it I am going to… maybe that will show her she has to stop.” I told her not to. Beth did it and Angie did do it. Figured she wouldn’t but was still concerned that she would. So that day kinda just hit me like a ton of bricks. I remember, Beth was in my gym class, she just walked up to me and pulled up her sleeve, and then walked away. I just stared blankly. Isn’t it strange the way you feel when other people do it, but then feel completely different when you do it yourself. I remember walking home that day. Didn’t even watch where I was going, surprised I didn’t get hit by a car. Just thinking, what do I do? Should I do it? I was thinking of doing the thing Angie said she was gonna do, cut herself to make Beth stop. Yes, I would do this. we all know that it was a very selfish decision. It gave me an excuse to do it. And I wouldn’t admit to it until after I did it, that the only reason I did it was because I wanted to do it for myself also. I remember doing this one. I was sitting at this very same computer, writing a note to Angie on it about this whole thing. I had the Alanis Morissette song Mary Jane on. Music really is a wonderful thing. I have a song to go with everything that has happened in my life. “It’s full speed baby, in the wrong direction, there’s a few more bruises if that’s the way you insist on heading. I hear your losing weight again mary jane, you ever wonder who your losing it for.” Sorry, just thought I would let you know some parts from that song. So I had that on. Was Beth’s song for a while until I found my uncanny connection with it. So then I put Angel by Sarah McLachlan on. That is my “self injury” song. Basically, every time it is on I cry. Listening to that, thinking, listening, thinking. Pull out a push pin from the drawer. But the look of Beth’s cuts I thought she used this. Middle of right arm. Pushed, pulled across. Arm or shoulder wouldn’t do for this, I had to make an impact. And I guess it was an excuse to be “risky” I always gave myself kinda privileges to do it there. Ouch, hurts. But there is barely a thing there. Do another. Ouch. But nothing there. Again. Nothing. Go back over. Nothing. Argggh. Frustration. “Need some distraction, oh beautiful release.” Ah, song, ah tears. Crying, crying. OK, enough. Put the push pin down. Listening to the song again and write my note to Angela. I remember later that night I had to do a thing for social studies class. I got so frustrated because I couldn’t do it. OK fine, I already have some there, I have to hide it anyway, might as well do another. Yeah, I was back to do it just because I was “frustrated”. Go into my box on my headboard always either had a shaving razor there or behind something on my headboard. OK, one. Good, done now. So the next day, it was a Friday. Didn’t tell Beth. Couldn’t. Partly I guess because it was for probably more me than her. I remember what I wore that day, my black fuzzy sweater, and an abundance of bandaids. They weren’t really needed I just put them there anyway. So that night Angie invited me to sleep over. It took me a long time to say it to her. To tell her that I did it. But I came out and said it. And then cried and cried and cried until I thought my eyes were out of tears. I didn’t say a word about me doing it for myself, but it hit me that I didn’t want them there. I started really regretting them, and that just made me cry more. So I took my bandaids off because Ang wanted to see how bad it was. It really wasn’t bad, there were about five of them. Angie made a good point, not that night but a time afterwards. You wouldn’t have done that many if it was “just for Beth”. She’s a sharp one. We slept in her living room that night and I remember waking up and having my arm exposed and I was like “crap” as her mom walked through the living room. Not seen, phew. So that Monday angie had convinced me I had to show Beth. I pulled he into the bathroom in gym and pulled up my sleeve. She looked and I said “if you do it again so will I.” She just gave me a huge hug. So then that day at lunch, I was informed that she told Matt. Thanks. I was on the lunch line with him and he was like “how could you do that?” “I don’t know. I just did it.” I am not sure if Matt knew I “did” it. I am sure he figured it out at some point in the time I have known him. I really regretted that one. All I wanted was for it to be gone. It really bothered me. Maybe because people knew about it. Made me more aware I guess. I don’t know. All I know is I really wanted it gone. It didn’t stop Beth from doing it again, neither did it stop me. Me and Angie had gone to a teacher about Beth. Didn’t do anything and Beth was really angry for it. Not at me though just Angie. Go figure. I remember one time I was watching Girl Interrupted. That movie always hit home for me. I was just so pissed, so frustrated felt like I just had to scream, had to do something I was so frustrated. I don’t even remember what was bothering me. It was probably nothing. I mean, did there really have to be a reason? I got a cup and smashed it. I can’t remember with what, not my hand I know that. That just got me more frustrated, so I knelt down and started to cry. I knelt on the floor crying picking up pieces of broken glass. I sat down on the couch continuing with my movie. No, I couldn’t just sit still, go get a razor, up and own my left leg, made little cuts but after that they hurt like hell. Look, that just got me more frustrated, cut up my thumb. That bled like so much. I almost thought I was gonna faint. So the next day me and Court, her mom, my mom and brother went to the park. I wore capris, I don’t know why. They were long capris though so they covered. You could only see it if you pulled them up. Of course court’s mom saw. “Oh my God, what happened?” “Shaving.” “Wow, you got to show your mom.” “Oh my God, what happened to your leg?” Uncomfortable. “Shaving.” So I continued on with that in 8th grade. Weeks of not doing it, relapse. Weeks of not doing it, relapse. And then of course there was my run in with eating disorders. In a way I idolise eating disorders. This isn’t something I just “fell into” this is something I really wanted. Which is why I probably never accomplished it. I again, can’t remember what started on eating disorders. I guess I was kinda always aware of them, knowing about this kind of stuff I guess. But again, I don’t know where it all started. One of my favourite lines in Girl Interrupted, “It’s not fair, it’s not fair! 74 is the perfect weight.” The word eating disorder made my ears perk. Made me feel as if I had a “special connection” with it. What really did it for me though was the movie Perfect Body. Yes I am aware that most of this stuff results from movies. I should just stop watching TV right? So Angie had told me, “I saw this movie the other day, it reminded me of Beth. It was about a gymnast with Anorexia.” So one day I was watching Lifetime, as I often do looking for that “cutting” movie that I have yet to see since that day. So I saw the commercial for it and was like, “oh, I will tape it for Beth.” So I watched it, mesmerised. That is what made me say, “I am doing this.” I hated the way I looked, and still do, depends on the day though. I felt dreadfully overweight. I mean come on, give me a break. I am surrounded by friends who are ranging from a size 0-7. And here’s me, with my size 13. All my blessed 110 pound friends. I envied each and every one of them. I remember looking at Beth at times and wanting to cry for not looking like that. Plus the fact that she was sorta “ana” made her even more of a eligible candidate to “idolise”. Me trying to be “ana” equals huge, huge headaches and failure. What makes the life of a person with an eating disorder to me “glamorous” I could not say. I just wanted in every way shape and form to be Andie from Perfect Body. I wanted her personality, her looks, her attitude, her body, her conflicts. Even her ill, pale face. I wanted an eating disorder. I was very well aware of the consequences, very well aware of what it entailed. Or maybe not because I am sure the idea of self injury to someone is “glamorous” and let me tell you. It’s hell. I would never choose to do this. I would never idolise this. So it’s probably just the same with eating disorders. Didn’t phase me. So over the summer it started. I wouldn’t eat breakfast, lunch. But then dinner time rolled around. I would go crazy with food, figuring it was OK because I didn’t eat all day. Food was always on my mind, thinking about how much I was craving it, thinking about not eating it, eating it anyway because I have no willpower. I did try throwing up, didn’t work well and I was in a way too scared to do it. So during the same I start this word gets around that Beth is too. I got very scared, and figured in the end it wasn’t worth it to me to start killing myself again. So I stopped. October of 8th grade. It all started all over again. Watching Perfect Body over and over and over again, crying for not being like that. Reading up on exercises, on how to throw up, putting way too much thought into eating a piece of pizza. But something in me wanted it, wanted it more then I could say. And I would be damned if I would stop trying, although it was hard as hell. Because again, the more you think about food, the more it gets harder to not eat it, and food was always on my mind. Planning out my weeks, what day to fake a stomach ache, what day to sleep through dinner, what day to eat to make it not as noticeable, but how much food to eat that won’t be too much. I never went through with my plans of course. Something pushed me at some point. All I remember is one week being on a roll with it. I had a routine and I stuck to it. exercise, take weight down, don’t eat in school, don’t eat when you get home from school, little or no dinner. If you ate dinner, throw it up. Yes I did learn the fine art of purging. Again being so afraid of someone finding out, so I couldn’t do it in the bathroom. Ah, garbage can. I am surprised my mom didn’t find it strange that I was throwing out trash bags every day. Sometimes, I just would be too lazy to get rid of it, or I couldn’t. So I put the bags on the side of my bed, piles of bags on the side of my bed. I never threw up a lot. Never everything, enough I suppose, the act of doing it should be enough. That week, I was so proud of myself, so proud, so on top of myself, and although I didn’t go down any pants sizes, although I only lost a pound or two, I felt as if I had lost a hundred pounds. But then of course, I screwed up. One day, that is all it took. One day of pigging out and I was way, way off the path. It was so easy once you started, it was just starting. I couldn’t get back on track. It was so hard. And the fact that I couldn’t do it just got me more and more frustrated. No one should have to think about food as much as I did. No one should have to think that eating a piece of bread is gonna make the pants that fit them today not fit them tomorrow. But that is how I thought. And I couldn’t change that. I wanted someone to know. For pity? For applaud? For a reminder that I did have some sort of what I wanted. I hinted to Ang for weeks, “I have a diary, I just have some stuff I want to keep to myself. I am not ready to tell you yet.” Yeah, well if you tell someone that, they are gonna bug you until you tell them. So I broke down. We were sitting in play rehearsal, she was trying to figure it out. She made a cutting motion on her wrist. Nope. She looked in the air thinking. Then putting her hand to her mouth and making a throwing up motion didn’t get it at first. Then I said oh, yeah. For the rest of the rehearsal she bugged me with whys and it’s so dangerous. I didn’t want to hear it. I bring it upon myself though. I want people to know but then I never want to hear about it. She called me that night. “Did you eat?” “Yes I ate.” “What?” And I had to go through what I had eaten. Then the next night she called me, “OK, just listen to my story before you say anything.” “OK.” “Now, I was feeling really fat, I ate too much so I went to the bathroom.” “Angie, no!” “I didn’t do it, but I sat there thinking for about an hour, thinking about you. So I had to talk to someone.” “Angie you didn’t tell anyone about me?” “Just listen.” “Beth and Jolene were online and I told them.” “About you?” “No, about you.” “They kinda guessed.” “You what? I can’t believe you I can’t!” So that conversation went on for like two days. I was so mad about that. So mad. I tried to explain to Beth that it was a “past” thing. She bought that. Jo I didn’t even talk to about it because stuff like that she just complicates. So for the rest of that year I “battled” I guess you can say with it. Never becoming what you call ana or mia. Just food on the mind all time. Thinking of ways to not eat it while shoving it in my mouth. Food making me cry. Making me cry! Whats wrong with that? A lot. Spells of not eating. They only lasted about a day or two. Throwing up ever once and a while. Always hated that though. It would take me thirty minutes, and only five were actually spent purging. The other were spent thinking about it. Sitting with my head over the garbage, crying. Going to do it, pulling back. Going to do it, pulling back. Closing my eyes and sucking it up. OK, that’s enough. With all the obviousness of hiding something, take the bag out to the garbage can, and when that bag hit the garbage can a feeling of complete relief came over me. OK, now I don’t have to worry about it, it’s all gone. Until the next time. So here we are now, 9th grade. First year of high school. And maybe one of the “worst” (talking about this stuff) year yet. This year, lost a lot of my friends to the black hole of high school. Still friends with them, just not close. The friends I am still close with, well things aren’t all peachy keen. We have my best guy friend who I completely adore. We all know how fun it is to like your best friend. Plus the fact that he makes me feel like crap, takes me for granted, steps all over me. Yet I still adore him. We have my best friend who things are just somewhere I don’t know. Her personality can be very turnoffish at times and that definitely hit me this year, and I don’t deal with things well (as we have learnt). So I just keep my mouth shut about it. Then we have Dom, who I don’t speak with anymore. For about two years our friendship was rocky, and this year we just both gave up. So the point to that was to explain how I have no one to talk to this year. I hate talking. It always makes me feel like I am being bothersome. Selfish. So I took a new approach this year. Don’t say a word. Don’t talk to anyone about anything, deal with everything on your own. Don’t let anyone see you suffer. And this is where that idea leads. I believe all summer I was good. Didn’t do it once. Then the first time I did it again was the end of September. I remember because it was right before homecoming. On my shoulder. Don’t remember what triggered that one. I was thinking, I am glad I did that, don’t know what is gonna happen in winter because I have a feeling I will be cutting my wrists. Isn’t it sad how I don’t even have control over it? So that one was on my shoulder. Told people it was a cat scratch. It’s amazing what people will believe. A lot of 8th grade memories were coming back to me, a lot of cutting followed. It just got so bad. I wouldn’t even have only one on me at once. It would be multiple ones in multiple spots. Name a place I bet you I have cut there this year. Arms, wrist, shoulder, stomach, neck, foot, leg, knee, ankle, thigh, hand, and when I ran out of places I picked my fingers, how easy to say paper cut. A big amount of paper cuts don’t you think? What body part didn’t I name there? I have so many scars from this year. Most of my visible scars are from this year and if you pointed to one I bet I could tell you in detail when and how I did it, even what I was watching or listening to. There is a really visible one on my upper side right arm. Did that one while watching Hunger Point. “And I have to cut myself to feel something. And I don’t exist my mind is just a big black hole eating me alive.” Quote from that movie, sorry. So it was with a box cutter. No I mean, I cut it trying to get my cat out from under the bed, I cut it on the screw sticking out from my bed. Ahem. I guess it scarred so bad because for me it wasn’t good enough so I did it again the night after and made it worse. No one thought that was what it was from because of where it was. “Why would someone do it there? How could anyone think that is what it is.” And I quote. OK, believe what you want, no skin off my nose. Another one in result of that movie was a countless number on my right knee. I had a hole in my pants there so I just started to cut up the bare skin. I did it night after night there figuring, I have to hide it anyway, may as well do another. Same for some I did on my ankle, and my foot. The ones on my foot I was afraid wouldn’t be gone by Nyssma because I had to wear open shoes. They were though, phew. There is one on my hand that I cursed when I did it. I was on the phone with Angie. She was really frustrating me about some project. So I took my nail and dug it into my hand. There was nothing there. So I did it over and over. Hmmm. What did we learn, it has the same effect as the eraser. Doesn’t show up till the next day. I had a nice raw skin mark that I hated. I am kinda used to the scar now, although it is impossible to not see it, I am just used to it. It has now become part of me. Like all my scars. I just get used to them, hate them, but used to them. They become part of me. I start using little scratches I get as excuses. I scratched the top of my arm, so why not use that as an excuse to cut there, I have a believable excuse now. And the “eating disorders” did not get any better this year, maybe worse. It was just different because I was never able to do it this year, it has just been such frustration. Eating, trying not too eat. I eat way too much, but that is because I am always thinking about food. Oops, messed up, might as well eat all I want today. That’s all fine and dandy, until its every day doing that. I probably gained more weight this year because of this damn thing then lost weight. Back and forth with it, planning out meals, not following the plans, exercising for all of a week and stopping, throwing up nothing, but still feeling it is necessary. I would sometimes “have” to do it, even when I really didn’t want to because of such a fear of gaining the weight. I know damn well eating a meal is not gonna bring up your pants size. But if I feel fat after that meal I can’t help but be compelled to do it. Watching Hunger Point continuously. Not Perfect Body so much. I feel more “connected” with Hunger Point. Maybe because she isn’t a gymnast or anything in hat movie. Maybe because she is not only ana she cuts too. The countless pro ana sites. Printing out pages of quotes, pages of tips, pages of thinspiration. Hoping that one of those pages will hold the key to success. For the record, none of them have yet. I wish you could just read a quote and be able to do this. Ha not so easy. So where am I at now? Now, staring back on everything I have just written and being so damn surprised that it is me. It’s kinda scary when you think about it, I guess writing everything out made me actually step back and look at it all. And I can’t believe it is me. I mean it is scary. Going to sleep and not knowing how I will wake up the next day. If I’ll be OK, or if the flow of life will make me cry. The way I feel, the way I dress can plan out my entire day. If I feel fat, or ugly, I can bet you anything I will be in a horrible mood, I will snap at everyone. And I will cry myself to sleep that night. And some days I feel just great. And it’s scary and annoying not to know which one I will wake up to the next day. It’s scary that admitting all I have, by reflecting all I have, by stating how bad it all is, that I still want to be that “ana” girl. How the life of an “ana” to me seems ever so glamorous. But also not knowing what my views on it will be tomorrow. Tomorrow I may be completely afraid of the idea of it and may not want anything to do with it. Or I could be throwing a plate of food into the garbage. Knowing that cutting brings me nothing good. That all it does is bring more stress, more harm then good. Knowing that I have no control whether I do it or not. I don’t have a choice in the matter. Knowing that that brief moment of clarity and calmness is only that, a brief moment. Everything just goes away when I see blood and feel that quick sting. But then a moment later everything builds up again. Then looking down at what I did and crying that I want it gone. That I can’t have another scar. That one day someone will notice the countless scars and put the puzzle together. Regret, shame, uncontrollable sick cycle. Addiction. The fear of not being able to stop this. Because in the end, it’s not my choice. I have no control, it’s taken over me completely. Quote from Christina Ricci, “I’d be upset, so I’d do it and it would calm me down. It’s a horrible way to feel better…”


This was written a while ago and I just want to give an update on what has been happening in my life. After this was written it was somehow sent to my father. He read it, he let my mom read it, and all of a sudden four years of life just seemed to come tumbling down in an instant. I was shipped off to therapy, against my will completely. And some may think, “well maybe it will be life changing, maybe it will be like in those damn Lifetime movies where everything is fixed even though it doesn’t seem like it can be.” Nope. I hated it with a passion. I started dreading Wednesday evenings. Just wanting it to be over with for good. I somehow convinced everyone that “I was cured” they believed me. Shows how good my therapist was right? So I was done with therapy. Thank God. That was I think the beginning of 10th grade. 10th grade went normal. Well for me it was normal. Bad day, cut yourself. Scribbling in your diary about how you want to die but knowing you never have the guts to do it. Standing on that damn scale, numbers always going up. Sitting over that damned garbage can trying to rid yourself of all the food you just ate that you somehow think is gonna solve your problems. It went on like that for the whole year. I of course didn’t tell anyone. No one knew either. I hated that my parents knew that I “used to do it though” because I feared so much every time I did it. But that didn’t stop me. I needed it, I needed it to live. So onto this year. Any better? No. Not at all. I did meet this wonderful person online that helps me a lot. He SI’s also and it helps that I finally have someone to talk to. I still cut. A lot too. I have joined a lot of SI groups though, that also helps. There was one thing the other day though, scared me in a way. Remember that movie I was talking about in the beginning, that I haven’t seen in five years? It was on the other day. I was flipping through channels and there it was. I left it on and started to cry. I started getting really scared, this is what started five years of my life. I started not wanting to do this anymore. I was really scared of myself. So what did I do? I took a razor and cut a nice big star into my thigh. Yeah, that makes sense right? So I guess I’m not done with this, I guess that is always how its gonna go. I guess deep down I don’t want to stop this. It’s hard you know? It’s hard to break a five year addiction, and it’s hard to want to stop. I’m afraid to stop. How will I live? How will I cope, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart without it. It’s sad that that is now my life is resorted to. It’s sad that every day revolves around where I am gonna make the next cut. I’m not happy with how this life is going, don’t think I don’t understand that I need to change, I know I do. Trust me I know.


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