Copyright, Holly

I’m fourteen and I started SI a year ago today on my brother’s birthday. My family were having a get-together for my brother and the kids were playing games. My sister Larissa accused me of cheating and started calling me names so I called her a bitch. Dad walked in just as I said it and hit me across the head. I ran upstairs in tears and threw all my drawers around looking for something sharp (all my friends SI so I thought they’re happier than me maybe it will work). Anyway, I just threw everything around and found some scissors and just cut my wrist. At first it didn’t bleed so I did it again and again. I don’t know why but I wanted it to bleed more than anything. When I told my dad I had done it in an argument and said it was his fault he laughed at me and said I didn’t have the guts to hurt myself. I got really upset and cut even more. Ever since then I’ve been cutting. I don’t wish I’d never started. Sometimes I wish that I had killed myself there and then. My parents are divorced and my dad has severe depression and so do I. I’m always in agony from the car crash I had a while back. I feel so isolated and as though no one cares. I don’t understand what I did wrong.


Copyright, Holly

God knows what possessed me to start but the fact is I started and thus can’t stop. Personally I think in my head that it’s OK to do this so long as it’s controlled and I don’t completely fuck my arms and no one sees them! I know it’s not the best thing to do but so long as you can deal with it and control it I see no problem, you know?

This is my Story

Copyright, Holly

My name is Holly. I started cutting when I was thirteen. Around the time my mom was drinking like a fucking maniac, and my dad so deep in depression, he was in pain all the time because of his knee (which is a totally different story). Our money situation was terrible, he sued the hospital for fucking up his knee, just to pay for the hospital bills, and only won enough to pay for some of it, and then mom took half of it. Then mom divorced my dad. Shit just keep going on worse and worse. But when this all started I had found a razor, and carved ‘hate’ into my knuckles, and ‘love’ on the lower part of my finger, and random things on my hand — X’s and lines – not deep but noticeable. I didn’t want mom and dad to know, so I wore my wrist band over my hand, and said it was just a new little fashion I do. They believed it. I kept cutting, until I met this boy, and I thought he was so great, but he cut too. I started cutting my thigh, and upper arm when something bothered me. Then we made a promise that we wouldn’t cut, and that if we did, we would tell the other. We went a month, I hadn’t cut… then found out he did, so much. I called up my friend crying and he was like ‘chill out babe, it’s OK’ and I talked for like an hour, and said I was OK. Then we got off the phone, and pulled out the razor. I cut about forty times on my arm, and one on my wrist. I wore long sleeves for about a week, and it started to get hot. One day I rolled up my sleeves without thinking, and everyone in class freaked out. They sent me to guidance, and I was like ‘don’t tell dad, don’t tell dad!’ because I knew he would get so depressed. And I was right, he made me go and talk to a shrink that night, and for every week (and still now) I have to see her. The shrink didn’t help. Then my boyfriend (yes, the same one) said ‘lets fuck’. I was like ‘no, I want to wait’. I guess you know what happened. And when he went home I carved his name, ‘slut’, ‘hated’, ‘bitch’, ‘fat’ and other shit into my thigh, deeper than ever. And then that Friday we went to a teen club that we always go to and I was like ‘we need to talk’ and I told him that I didn’t get my period on time. And he’s like ‘you better not be pregnant!’ and ignored me the rest of the night. That night I pierced my arm and knuckle with safety pins and used a safety pin to cut my wrist. Never that night did he say shit about it. I cried so much. Around that time I started taking Paxil and pretended to be OK, but really I knew I was still depressed. And by then I was addicted to cutting, and cutting became my release. Mom left the house, and I was so freaked about being pregnant, I had no one to talk to, and I had missed my period for two months. Then my boyfriend broke up with me. I was so lost, and I got in the tub and carved ‘death’ in my leg and cut my wrists and just soaked, and I felt like passing out. But I was like ‘I’m not ready’ so I got out and went to bed. Then I told my friend Heather about thinking about being pregnant, and she said that if I was her, mom would take me to the abortion centre, even though I’m against abortion. I took the test, and I wasn’t pregnant, I was so happy. And since then my cutting has been going down. I haven’t cut since like a month ago, and I’m dating a wonderful boy, we’ve been dating for about eight months. He’s helped my cutting problem. And my dad’s a little happier, and mom’s gone from my life (mostly) and I’m so happy about that. I feel so relieved I could tell someone my story.

Life hurts, so some cut, I did, and now I stopped

Copyright, Holly

It all started at the age of 13 years old. It started because of my parents’ divorce, I took a big knife and slammed it in my door making big holes to somehow get all this pain, agony, and anger out. Then, I just sat there not knowing what to do. Tears came to my eyes as I sat there thinking about what is to come of my life. I don’t know where the thought came from but I carved ‘Hi’ in my leg. It wasn’t like me to do that to myself. But, it had this weird way of helping the pain. I was so young I didn’t know, all I knew is it helped the pain a lot.

The year I started high school which is in 1997. I was all happy and excited to go on to high school. So many new faces and it felt like I could take on the world. But, little did I know what those people were like.

In 9th grade is when my severe depression hit. It was because of so many reasons, too many to say. The people in high school were mean and rude, my parents always fought, my life wasn’t happy at all, my parents were severe alcoholics and the list goes on.

I sat in my room everyday, listening to music, getting more depressed as every second flies by. Then, one late night, I remembered how I got the pain away that time before because of the divorce.

So I went and got a knife, and started carving away at my legs. Not knowing how bad this is or could become. I was a stupid teenager.

As school progressed, it got completely worse. I was seeing a counsellor and a therapist. I was on anti-depressants. Everyone tried so hard to get me happy. But it wasn’t them who could get me happy. It was me who can make myself happy. And it was hopeless. I hated myself and everyone around me.

When I was about 15, when I discovered how bad a razor could cut your skin. I was shaving my legs, and I got this horrible cut. All I could think about is ‘Wow, if that can do that to my leg, imagine how bad I could cut myself.”

The razor worked like a charm, a little too good actually. And it made everything seem so good because it was getting the pain out. I cut where people couldn’t see, like my legs and hips.

I was scared to cut my wrists, because I saw so many people die or get seriously hurt from it. But, one day in 10th grade. I experimented with my wrists. When my parents found out I was almost put in a mental hospital.

I thought there was nothing bad about cutting yourself. I thought hey if I’m not hurting anyone else, it should be OK to hurt myself right?

It was 11th grade, I didn’t even have a reason to cut myself anymore. I loved it, and the way it made me feel. And how the blood dripped on the floor. The blood represented the pain leaving my body. It wasn’t a good solution, but hey if you do it more often, the less you feel right? The cutting got like an addiction, as bad as a drug addiction. I couldn’t stop. But I didn’t care about myself.

People say I cut myself for attention. No, that isn’t correct at all. I know in my heart I did that to make myself feel better. I did it for my own well-being, not for others to feel sorry for me. I would never do that.

(Sorry the story is so long, it feels so good to write about this.)

Since Thanksgiving of 1999, I’ve been being molested by my uncle. And I am not a emotionally strong person at all. So I kept all those gross feelings in, and all that hate inside for years. I got quite good at keeping my feelings in. Since last summer of 2000, he kept doing it. I felt so bad, so, so bad. So taken advantage of. And I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t want to rip the family apart. I wanted to keep it the way it was. Didn’t happen anyways. The last time he ever took advantage of me was the time my mom found out. I was sort of relieved, but scared when his brother (my dad) found out. It was going to tear up the family.

I was home alone in august of 2000. I called my mom, and she had been drinking. Didn’t help. But she told my dad. I just freaked out and cried and cried, oh my god. What I didn’t want to happen happened. I’m going to ruin the family. So before they got there, I took that brand new razor, and slashed my arms 10 times in a row on each arm. The forearm was cut so bad, blood dripped and wouldn’t stop.

I had a reality check that night. I thought to myself, look at what you did to yourself. I finally got to hug my dad though, even though our relationship was weak and we never saw each other.

I stopped cutting myself that night. The reality of the situation I was in didn’t kick in. That I’d have to live with this for the rest of my life.

Every day I have to look in the mirror and see those cuts. They are scarred and they will never go away. It’s so hard to not be able to wear short sleeve shirts anymore. I always have to wear long sleeved shirts now. Again I bury the feelings of those cuts. They will always be kept in because I hate people feeling sorry for me.

I’m not proud of my cutting, I’m extremely disgusted with myself and I wish everyday I would never have done it.

So if you can help it, never ever cut yourself. Because you’ll be in my shoes and everyone else’s who has experienced this tragedy.

Thanks for letting me write this! Every little bit helps.


Copyright, Holly

About three years ago I hit a horrible low in my life. I decided that my life was like that of an ant’s. Meaningless and unimportant. I slit my wrist very deep, a fraction of a millimetre deeper and I would not have lived. The last thing I remember from that night is that nobody cared, and living was not worth the pain. I woke up from a coma about four days later a stranger that I did not recognise was there, beside my bed asleep holding my hand, a perfect stranger fell asleep holding my hand.

I am convinced that he was my angel, I found out later that he was from my school, he had called to ask me out to go somewhere moments after I had went unconscious, and when I didn’t answer my phone he decided to come over. Well, he helped me, because of him I am alive. He taught me how to love, and how to care for everyone, we were best friends until about half a year ago, after I got really close to him my family moved most the way across the United States, and we remained very close friends, and about half a year after I moved away he came and visited me for spring break. But he never made it back home. He died on his way home in a car accident. I have fallen into depression, but every time I think about dying I remember him, and how much of a difference a stranger can make in someone’s life. And I want to be the person keeping someone alive, not a weak little ant, that has no purpose.


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