Copyright Isy

Don’t ask me why I am how I am — I’m pretty sure that no matter how curious you are, I am infinitely more so.

I guess I started cutting about a year or so ago. I don’t think it matters all that much, to be honest.

I first came accross self-injury when I was about eleven. My friend had been injuring for some years at this point — I think. I guess I knew she did things like scratching her skin for ages, but it only really occurred to me that it was bad when I read her diary — with permission. I looked up to her — to me, she was strong, invulnerable even. I guess I didn’t know her and all the things she had gone through then. At that point, I avoided the subject at all costs. It was something I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to mess up and make her hate me. She came to be my best friend and I didnt want to lose her.

When I got to high school, I met another girl who cut herself badly. She became one of my closest friends as well. I guess this really began my fascination with it. I thought about how this helped them, because by that point I knew it did, though I don’t remember anyone telling me. It was instinctive, I guess.

I wondered how they could do it, why it helped, how it helped. I wanted to know if I could do it too. I wanted to know what I could take. You have to understand that these are two of my closest friends, I looked up to them almost as much as I look up to my big sister.

I tried it, I couldn’t. It hurt too much. I knew it was a stupid thing to try, to get into. But it was a fascination, a compulsion to test it, see if I could do it, how much pain I could take.

But then something happened. I dont remember what. I just had a bad morning, I guess. I was angry at someone, I think, for humiliating me about something. And I was angry at myself for being humiliated. So I sat in science and scratched the back of my hand raw. I wanted someone to notice at that point. No-one did. But it had calmed me down. And it felt good.

Next time I felt alone, I hit myself and punched a wall. It didn’t hurt like when I was experimenting. So I kept doing it.

And then I tried cutting again. And sort of… kept going.

I started on my legs. I knew that punching walls was all very well, but cutting I had to hide. I had seen my friends’ experiences with professionals and there was no way I was going to let them know I wasn’t perfect.

And I guess it all went downhill from there. I’m still struggling, you could say, though I don’t really see it like that. Sometimes I think I might be depressed, but most of the time I tell myself that that’s stupid and I am no worse off than anyone else. Other people can cope, why shouldn’t I be able to?

Right now, I’m in a bad place. I cut pretty often and I constantly hate myself. I feel I’m not good enough and never will be. Maybe one day I will be, but right now, I really doubt it.

One of the thigs I hate most is telling other people things will be OK.

I just wish I could believe that myself.

Maybe it would help if someone took the time to say it to me once in a while.

Once someone told me that depressed people are the most self-involved people in the world.


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