Copyright Linn

Upon reading the stories on this site, I realised there are people out there doing much worse than me, but I just thought I’d submit my story anyways.

I’m fourteen years old, and I have been cutting since I was twelve. I guess I’ll just tell you the whole story about how I ended up being a SI’er.

I grew up in a good family, with both my mom and dad living together. They broke up when I was three years old because my dad cheated on my mom with her best friend. We then moved to another place. It was a good neighbourhood for everyone — except me. I was bullied at an early stage, and I often came home crying from school. I had few friends, and the ones I had could suddenly turn against me because they wanted to be with ‘the cool gang’, and then they would act like nothing happened afterwards. I hardly remember anything from living there.

My mom also called the parents of the kids in my class, and arranged for their kids to come over seeing as I had no one to be with in my free time. As I said, they’d arrange meetings, but they didn’t show up. Not a single one.

This continued for years until I was ten, when my mom bought a restaurant, and we moved. It was so much better than the previous place, because I got friends almost immediately. It was a small place. However, ever after my mom bought the restaurant, she was never home and I only talked to her right before I left for school and before I went to bed at night.

When I was home alone, my grandfather, who lives up the street from us, would come to our house and verbally abuse me by saying I was ugly, fat, needed to cut my hair, needed to lose weight, and he would make me clean the house while he was sitting there watching. I told my mom, and she believed me because he’d do the same thing to her when she was a kid.

I still had contact with my dad. He had become an alcoholic, and would break the promises he made by saying he couldn’t because of some reason. He made me think he only said that because he didn’t want to spend time with me.

When the bank suddenly decided they’d sell my moms restaurant, I was so happy I got to see more of her. But it didn’t turn out the way I wanted. She was mentally worn out and was hardly up for anything, and we started to fight constantly. She’d yell at me for not doing as she told, basically everything I did was wrong. She would even pull my hair or smack me if she got really mad, and she let everything that went wrong out on me.

This was when I started cutting. I think the first time I cut, was after me and my mom had a fight. I ‘accidentally’ broke a glass, picked up one of the pieces and cut. First small cuts, then bigger, and then about a year ago I started cutting with razorblades.

Yes, I cut now too, whenever I’m upset. I don’t think anyone knows what I do, except my friend who asked me about some cuts when my sleeve fell slid down when my arm was in the air. I haven’t told anyone either, and I don’t plan on doing so either.

Anyways, I have the feeling this was way too long, so if you wanna contact me to talk or something, feel free to do so.


Copyright Linn

Well, I Thought I would tell you something about me, both because I think it would help me a little to write and because you might want to read it. I’m fifteen years old and have been through some heavy shit already. Not the kind of stuff you might call heavy like drugs (well, not like heroin or stuff) or suicide by a near friend. Though I have stopped my best friend back then, a year ago, to commit suicide. That was on my fourteenth birthday party, when she took a knife from my kitchen and disappeared. I ran after her as soon as I realised where she went. I caught up with her after a little while and took the knife out of her hand. The blood was running down her arm, but she didn’t get time to slit her wrist yet, I stopped her in time. Though I’m sure she would have done that If I wouldn’t have stopped her. I think that is what started all of this, and now I’m caught in a downward spiral, a bad circle. After that things calmed down, she got to speak to someone about it and got better. Now the thing is, I started to hurt myself for a long time ago. I don’t even remember when it was, must have been sometime last year in the autumn, about a year ago then. The first cuts were kind of shallow, not physically seen, but for pretty bad reasons. Though no reason is bad all through I think, and the first cut I ever made is the one that is easiest to see. After that the “reasons” came and went, and now my life looks this way — my best friend in life is sick of life and feels trapped, she says, and wants to take her own life. At least she says so. She slit her wrist a few weeks ago, just to see she told me, but could handle it herself and stopped herself from bleeding to death. One of my other friends also hurts herself, though she has not much of a reason, other then that her parents argue more than the most do. I know that can be hard, mine are divorced since I was thirteen. I have now seventeen “regular” scars, one that has not healed quite yet on my left wrist, two cross-shaped scars made with a pencil, LIE (though in Swedish) written with a razor blade on my left hand and the word HURT written also with a razor blade on my right arm. I have two new ones, made as late as yesterday, shaped as stars. One kind of small on my left wrist, and one bigger on my right hip, also made with a razor blade. I’m not cutting my arms any more, for that I only feel good (and that’s good) but I also get attention, that I don’t want. Somebody I guess is self-injuring to get attention, like a call for help, but I’m not one of them. I’m sick of their attention! It might be a good thing that they seem to care (at least some of them) but there are others. Just a while ago (a few hours) I got to know, from a friend, that one of my other friends (that I thought were one of my best friends though he is a boy) had talked behind my back. It all started with me trying to explain to him why I was self-injuring and suicidal. I asked him if it was OK to listen, and he said so many times “yes it’s OK, tell me, I wanna know, I wanna help you” and all that was only bullshit. That is what I got for trying to share, trying to talk about it. What he said about me? Oh, he said to my friend that I was a selfish bimbo only thinking of myself. That’s what I got for trying to explain, trying to talk, trying to tell. I had serious problems with talking with people before, and now it all came back to me. I kind of got into a shock, but later when I saw him reality caught up. I felt like someone ran a knife into my stomach, twisted it between my ribs, and pulled it out again only to do it again, and again, and again. When we left him, I was so busy fighting with myself, so scared that I would loose control and cut my arms so bad that I couldn’t hide it at all. I really wanted to slit my wrists, but I knew all along that I just couldn’t, a suicide would have to be more planned then that. If I only would cut “a little”, just so I can watch it (reason number two why I’m self-injuring — I think it’s so beautiful. I’ve taken pictures on my last cuts, my red stars, when the blood still was coming out of the cuts, and that was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. It’s so incredible to watch), my mom probably would notice and that would be very, very negative. It happened before, she saw my wrist-cut, and asked me what it was. I’m just lucky she’s not the brightest person in Sweden, she fell for the explanation I made up in panic, that I accidentally slipped and fell and scratched my wrist bad on a “metal kind of thing” in the fall. Well, as I was walking home, I was really, really afraid. My hands where shaking, as the always do when I get a panic attack (I searched for the English word for “ångest” and “panikångest”, which is what I suffer from now and then, and found the words anxiety, dread and fear, if that tells you something). When I got home, I tried to calm down, and went straight up to the computer. When he (my Friend that talked behind my back) started to write to me over MSN messenger, I tried to act normally, but of course that charade didn’t last. After a while I told him what I heard, though I said I made her (the friend who told me what he said) tell me. After lots of talking I felt a little, little, little bit better, and I think he was honest when he said he felt really bad about it. This happened tonight, and now when I’m writing this he just logged out. I hope I’ll never have to go through this again, cause he means really much to me. (He didn’t say the exact words my friend told me, and the whole thing seemed to be just a stupid thing done by him. I really do hope I can trust him, though it will take time before I can.) Now I don’t have much more to tell you.


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