One Fine Day — Yeah, Right

Copyright, Julie

My name is Julie. I’ve been cutting, burning and attempting to harm myself for about a year or two, give or take a few months. It’s extremely addictive. I started cutting when a series of events came to me. My grandma died, I was so close to her, I was basically raped by my boyfriend at a party, I had to move back to a place I’ve always hated, my best friend committed suicide. All these things came together and the only thing I could think of was cutting. I heard from other people that it was an instant pain reliever. So I tried it. I took a tack and rubbed it up and down my arm until I started to bleed. It felt so good. I figured that would hold me off for a while. Then when things got so stressful to where I couldn’t do anything but cut. I cut not a lot just enough to hurt my self. When the puffiness and swelling went away I’d always look at my arms and think ‘hmm, I think I can take a few scars. I won’t let it get that bad.’ But eventually it did get that bad. My whole arms are marked up and my hips are too, same with my ankles. During my sophomore year I got to know someone I never really talked to and then we became really close friends. We talked all the time in class and on the internet. Then I found out he did what it did. He cut. It felt so strange to know someone so close to me did the same thing. I respected him for it too. Then me and him started to drift away from each other. I started cutting more and more just because I had no one to talk to, no one to tell how was was feeling or what had happened that day or that week. Cutting had became a daily thing for me. Every day I’d come home from another miserable day at school and throw my books down on my bed and grab something sharp like a broken end of a bobby pin or even my razor. And I’d cut myself until I’d nearly pass out from the pain. All my friends from my old school had known about it because I’d to it when I lived down there. But I wouldn’t cut myself. I’d burn myself with my hot iron. Or a curling iron. Anything hot, lighters, whatever. I’d have my friends ask me questions about what happened to my arms and I’d just say ‘oh, I got scratched by my dogs and cats’ or ‘I dropped my straightener on my leg’ or on my hand or something, then me and the guy I never really talked to once again got close again. Then he told me that he had stopped cutting and he thought I should stop too. So I stopped cutting for him (stupidest idea of my life) when I had realised that instead of someone different from all the other guys at my school he was just the same. That night I went home I cut at least ten times. I almost passed out I cut so deep and I never meant to but I did. The next day at school I had to wear a long sleeved shirt. My arms were burning still from the night before. Then when I had to go get something my friend had grabbed my wrist and right where I had a fresh wound pressed down (not knowing that it was there) I immediately pulled my arm away and grabbed on to my wrist. It started bleeding. I took a pass to the bathroom. And I held it down with toilet paper until it had stopped. I was so embarrassed. Now I have started to slow down on my cutting but I still do it every now and then. But only when I can’t grasp a hold on my problems anymore. I currently have over eighty scars on my body just from cutting. I want people to know that cutting is a serious disorder and it shouldn’t be started just for attention and to make people feel sorry for them. And try to get help if you can.

You See Me, I See Me

Copyright, Julie

When you look at me you see an innocent little girl all candy and flowers. I’m your baby, same as the day you brought me home from the hospital; soft pink skin untouched by the world and bright new eyes staring in awe at the wonders around me. You see hope for a bright outstanding future and the promise of a “happily-ever-after”. There’s no doubt in your mind that I will find “Prince Charming”. I smile, and you think that you know the joy in my life.

I don’t have the heart to tell you that you’re wrong.

I’m a half woman half child looking for the innocence I threw away while trying to hide the pills and bottles I used to replace it. Scars self inflicted zigzag across my flesh mapping out my lowest points and my eyes are clouded over by the stain of sin. Through them I can barely see the dull flame that is my future, choking and sputtering in the harsh wind. And somehow I’ve completely lost track of my happily-ever-after, Prince Charming has taken a wrong turn and refuses to ask for directions. I smile, so that you won’t see the tears in my eyes.


Copyright, Julie

This is very strange for me to be writing something that I have no idea who will read, but it is quite liberating. I cut, scratch, and sometimes burn myself. Usually I cut with razorblades. I have many very noticeable scars on my arms that people are horrified when they see. I have started cutting my legs also, since it is less noticeable. I have told my family and been to doctors and therapists. Everyone seems to want to label it and tuck it away in a neat little package that isn’t talked about. My doctor put me on medication and increased it since I haven’t stopped cutting. He says I have anxiety depression. A nice, neat little label. “So why do you cut yourself Ju? Well; I have anxiety depression. Oh.” This is the neat little label that I have. “She’ll get better she is on medication. Don’t worry. Just don’t you dare cut yourself again.” This is my sarcasm to what other people think. I would like to be in contact with someone else involved in this so please e-mail me at if you want.


Copyright, Julie

I first started cutting in the 7th grade. I was only 12 and my grandmother was very ill. October of ‘98 came and she died. I couldn’t take the pain anymore so I got up early to get ready for school. And I took a razor blade to my wrist. I sliced it open good. I was crying and watching the blood drip at the same time. But also in that very same year my parents divorced. And I did it again.

When I realised what I had done that’s when I thought I have an answer to end all of my pain that the next couple of years would bring.

One year had passed and I was a freshman that year. And I got really, really depressed. So I sat in the bath tub because that is usually where I do it. And I sat in there picking a razor blade apart. Piece by piece. I slit my wrist open again this time it was much deeper than the other one I had done before. I sat in the bath tub feeling relieved. The cut just released the pressure off of my chest.

Now my sophomore year was really bad. I had met a guy my freshman year, and he was really nice to me. But things took a drastic change and he became really angry with me. He yelled at me like he never yelled before. So that night I sat in my room writing a suicide letter for my mom to find next to my dead mutilated body in the morning. I sat in the bathtub wanting to die so bad. I took a razor and cut 15 times into my ankle. They were deep cuts too, because when I got done my leg was all bloody.

So I got up cleaned it and put gauze on it. When I got done I tore the note into a million pieces. When I got done I realised what made me feel better when I was angry. Cutting myself. It was a part of me now. I didn’t do it again for like 4 months till I broke up with my boyfriend of 9 months. He was texting me on my phone screaming at me for no reason. I took it kinda hard so I did the same thing I always do I took a bath and cut myself.

But now what I realise is that I couldn’t take this anymore. I was hurting my family and friends. After my wound healed I now have a scar on my leg from what I did. This scar reminds me of what I did to myself. But I couldn’t help it I had to do it. It relieved so much pressure off my shoulders.

My advice to people who are still cutting is: Stop. Stop while you still can. It’s not worth leaving scars on your body. Get help. I have been cut free for 5 months now. Get help.


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