Copyright Lisa

My name is Lisa and I am fifteen years old. I have been cutting my arm for the longest time. It started with mild scratches but now it is deep bloody cuts. I think that I do it because I do not know how to handle my pain that I feel inside. It is so much easier to fix the outside. When I was a baby, my dad abandoned my mom and me and my three brothers by extension, and then my mom could not afford to keep us and she was sleeping around. My brother was taking on the responsibility of me the baby and he was only seven. Children’s aid ended up taking us away. My youngest brother has been adopted, I live with my grandmother, my older brother lives in foster care somewhere, he has the mentality of a seven-year old and he is seventeen, my oldest brother lives here with us now. My grandmother kicked him out at seventeen because he would not get a job. I missed him, but now that he is back he is so annoying.

When I was about five my cousin came over to babysit me. He raped me. I have never been the same. He did mild time for it but I can still remember it like it just happened yesterday. Then when I was six my neighbour would molest me. I never told anyone in my family about that. My whole life growing up I was physically abused, so was my brother, and verbally abused. When I was in grade 7 my teacher noticed marks on my face and called children’s aid. They took me away. I returned home a month later, and he would keep on beating me. It really hurt, inside and out, but I preferred him to beat me as opposed to insulting me, but as I continued to go to school with bruises on my body, the children’s aid got involved again. I went to five different foster homes. I hated that, so in grade seven one day at school, I tried to kill myself. I was twelve, and in a lot of pain. I was in the bathroom and I tied a chain around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My teacher found me and she started to shake when she could not get it off my neck. I was rushed to the hospital, and she came with me, she was the best teacher ever. When I was at the hospital I saw the shrink and I can’t even remember what he said, but that night I went to another foster home. I hated it there the most. They moved me the next day and I went to a group home, and I hated it there in the beginning and that is when I started to cut. All my life I would SI in different ways, but at the group home is where I started to cut. They would get upset when I did that, but they did not understand it, and then by extension I felt like they did not understand me. I was there for a year until they thought that it would be good for me to come home. They were wrong.

I got home and things were good for about a month. My grandmother does not hit my physically, but she tells me that she hates me and that she wishes I would get the fuck out of her life, and that I am a failure and a disgrace to the family. That the whole family hates me, and the things she says to me are unbelievable. So I cut.

I take my razor from a pencil sharpener, and I cut my arm. I watch the blood roll off of my hand and onto the floor. I normally slice really, really hard and really, really slow, so that I can really feel the pain, and then I start to carve words, like ‘hate’, ‘fat’ — that’s on my stomach — ‘bitch’ and the scars are ugly but the relief is perfect. My grandmother I think knows but she thinks it’s for attention. I let her think whatever she wants. At school a teacher found out, so I told her. She is a wicked teacher, she is trying to help me, and I appreciate that. She promised not to tell anyone, I am glad that I have her to talk to, or I think that I would go truly insane.

Just today, my grandmother was talking to her friend Dori, and she was trying to whisper but I could still hear, she said that she can’t stand me and that my whole family hates me, those being her own words. I just grabbed my blade and sliced four times and blood began to go everywhere. I tried to grab a Kleenex but the blood came too fast. Now I have blood all over my new pants, but I don’t care. I am sick of living this life. I get bad grades at school and my home life sucks. Sometimes I wish that I had died. But that is just wishful thinking.

I hope my life gets better in time. I wish that I could just bypass all of the shitty teen years and just be an adult away from all of this. And away from my stupid bitch of a grandmother. I hate my life, but I am going to try to hold on.

If anyone would like to talk about anything, you can e-mail me.

Maybe I Am Sick

Copyright Lisa

My first time was in 10th grade. Spanish class, my favourite class, in the back of the room. I used to chew on safety pins, just for shits and giggles. One day, I was sitting in Spanish, chewing away on my safety pin, and feeling sorry for myself. It was something I did a lot; this feeling sorry for myself thing. Sorry that I was poor. Sorry that I was fat. (I am still getting over an eating disorder. They tell me I m really not that fat. I’m 5’5” and at the time, weighed about 98 lbs. Now I weigh 120 lbs. Gross.) Sorry that I had no friends, no boyfriend, no life. Sorry that I never talked to my dad. Sorry that my sister (my only real ally) had moved out. Sorry that my mom was never home. Sorry that foster brother had left again. And as I sat there, chewing my safety pin, a thought occurred to me. Ann does it. Ann does it and says it works.

So the safety pin came out of my mouth, opened, I pulled along the skin of my left arm. It left a pink welt, stinging like a paper cut. I smiled a little. It wasn’t too bad, but it sort of felt good. I did it again. And again. And by the end of the period, my arm was covered in tiny, puffy pink star shapes. It was sort of pretty, even.

And, I felt better.

It continued on like that for a while. I eventually had to move to my stomach though, because of gymnastics. My arms were exposed during practise and my legs during meets. I started doing things like spraying the welts with hair spray, which made them sting and puff up. Then I moved from safety pins to a paring knife. The knife was dull, so I stole a new blade for my Exacto from the art room. The first time I used the Exacto was that summer, on my thigh. The skin parted easily. So easily it scared me a little. I was so used to having to push that I got myself pretty good and had to have stitches. I told my mom that I had been in the woods (which was true) and had caught myself on a tree branch.

And she believed it.

In my junior year, things got worse. My brother moved back to Missouri, my sister had a lot of problems with drugs and depression, my mom lost her job (again), and my grades were even worse. I was failing almost everything, stressed out, and was being yelled at all the time by my mother. The only thing that was really looking up for me was a boy named Garett. He was really nice, listened whenever I need to talk, and understood about all the crap at my house. The only problem was that he was dating a friend of mine. They were having a lot of problems, but it s like an unwritten girl-rule that you don’t scam on a friend’s man, no matter how much she treats him like shit. So all I could do was be there for him. And I did my best.

I found out about halfway through the year that a very close friend of mine, Ann, who was the one who introduced me to SI, was moving. I live in Michigan, and she was going to be in Arizona, come summer. I was totally devastated. Ann had been there for me through everything, and had been my first ever girlfriend, my best friend, everything. She was damn near a sister. When we started dating in the spring before she left, though, her parents found out and forbid her from seeing me. I was corrupting their sweet (ha!) little girl.

So for the last two months before she left, I never saw her outside of school. And the cutting got worse. Garett knew. In fact, thanks to Ann, just about everyone knew. When she found mine, she told everyone, probably to prove that she wasn’t the only one. But I never held it against her.

I soon graduated from the Exacto to a razor blade. One night, after a shower and nice bloodletting, I accidentally left my blade on the back of the toilet. My mom wasn’t home from work yet, and I fell asleep on the couch. It had been a long day. I woke up and two a.m. and the TV, the lights and my radio were off. My mom was sleeping. I remembered about my blade and panicked. It wasn’t anywhere in the bathroom, so I knew she had found it. I waited and waited for her to bring it up, but she never did. At first I was relieved. I convinced myself that it had slipped either into or behind the toilet and she hadn’t found it.

About a month later, school ended, Ann left, and Garett and I were a lot closer. At the beginning of June, I was rummaging through my mom’s jewelry box when she wasn’t home and I found my blade. I knew then and there that she knew. She knew want I was doing. And she wasn’t doing a damn thing about it. Of course, I thought. I have been so stupid. Did I really think she would care? Right. I told myself right then that I would stop lying to myself and just accept the fact that my mom didn’t give a shit.

My sister, who is five years older than me, has her birthday on June 11th. On June 10th, we got a call from the Isabella County Jail saying they had picked her up on a robbery charge. I’ll skip over the bullshit and just give you the basics: My sister is a drug addict. Oxy, to be exact. And she had been majorly fucked up and strapped for cash. So she walked into J. W. Fillmore’s (a restaurant much like Big Boy’s or Shoney’s), told them she had a gun, and demanded the money out of the till. Now, if you knew my sister you would know that this is not something she would do. Ever. So they hauled her in and she spent four months in jail. Then the judge (thank God) sent her to rehab. Which was what she needed. They also ordered her to go to therapy, and they have since decided that the drugs are not the cause of her mental illnesses, but a result. She has been out since January (about four months ago) and is doing well.

But at the time I was shocked. I freaked out, both on my mom (who told me the news) and on myself. I told myself that this was my fault. I was the one who was never home when Heather called. I was the one who used to fight with her all the time before she moved out. Everything was my fault. Everything. I really got myself that time: I passed out for about an hour because I lost so much blood.

Since then, Garett and I have hooked up and he is wonderful. No joke. He is totally supportive of me, understands when I need to talk, gets it if I don’t want to, and most of all, he keeps my secrets. I found out recently that he started cutting about three months ago, so we are trying to help each other. I never realised how upsetting it is when someone you love does it. I was always like “It’s my body, who cares?” But now I understand. And I’m trying to stop, mostly for him.

After Heather got out of rehab, she came back to live with us. Two weeks later, a good friend of mine was kicked out of his house. His step dad (a total asshole) likes to knock him around and give him shit because he’s gay. And his mom does nothing to stop it. So my mom welcomed Christopher in, no big deal. A week after that, my sister informs us that her rehab boyfriend, Chris, was being kicked out of rehab for fighting and would be coming to live with us. She didn’t ask my mom, or me, or anything. She just told us. And my mom accepted it. Because Heather is her favourite. So Chris (a.k.a. Neanderthal Man) came to live with us. I live in a two-bedroom apartment. With both the boys there, there were five of us. I was so used to being all alone 24/7, that I had a nervous breakdown and had to leave school early. It was terrible. But I didn’t cut. Chris is gone now, but Christopher remains. Chris will be in prison for fifteen years and I say good riddance. He treated Heather like shit.

I was doing really well. I had cut recently, but not for the same reasons. (I’m a bit of a masochist. I’ll admit it.) However, four days ago, my mother showed me a letter my school counsellor had sent home. It had a copy of my report card (not good) and a note saying that if I did not pass all my classes this semester, I would not be graduating this fall. My mom freaked. She went on and on about how I’m never home (like she has room to talk) and I just don’t give a damn about anything. She told me then that I am no longer allowed to leave the house more than twice a week (including on weekends) for the rest of the school year. I pointed out that Heather’s grades were terrible her senior year, but my mom let her move out. And do you know what she said to me? She narrowed her eyes and said “Heather’s grades were like that because she’s sick.” I couldn’t believe it. I said, “Maybe I am sick. Maybe I do need help.” And she laughed at me. Called me an idiot. Then told me that either my grades came up or I could leave. So that’s that. I get better grades or she s kicking me out. The worst part is that she thinks it’s helping. I told her about how Heather is her favourite and she called me a princess, which she knows I hate. I replied that I didn’t want to be favoured, I just wanted her to care half as much about me and she does about her. It went on in that vein for a while. It was bad.

And now, it s finally getting to be really warm, and I’m baking my ass off in a long-sleeved shirt. It pisses me off that the one and only time I have ever asked for help from her, she laughs at me. But I will be OK. I will pull my grades up, I will graduate, and then I’m getting the hell out. Community college for a year, the summer in Germany with Garett after he graduates, community college for another year, then off to Ferris to study music industry management or to CMU to become a high school English teacher.

I don’t have the Internet at home anymore (I’m at school right now), but if you want to contact me, my AIM is OjosConEstrellas. I get on every once in a while, if I’m at a friend’s house. Or you can e-mail me at This is my school e-mail and I will be able to check it every day until June 2nd, 2005. After that, e-mail me at I will be able to check it every once in a while. If you want to ask questions, share experiences, or just talk, contact me. I really like meeting new people and I want to help.

My Life in Hell

Copyright Lisa

I have been cutting since I was 10 I am now 16 and still doing it I can’t tell you exactly why I do it because that’s not the purpose I do it mostly because sometimes the physical pain feels a lot better than mental pain I can’t describe the feeling I get when I do it it really is incredible.


Copyright Lisa

I started to SI only a little while ago. I think it was the beginning of this year. I am 13 and in the 8th grade. A little young, I know, and I know I have so much more shit to deal with in my life, but I just need something to help me deal with my shit now. No one really suspects that I feel this way, I have mostly good grades, honours classes, friends, and my parents love me. But the stress got to be too much, and I never felt like I was good enough, my friends were always better than me at everything. One night I decided to try it and see if it helped me, I cut my arm, watched the blood drip to the floor and loved the feeling, like the stress was rushing out of me through my blood. Although I didn’t realise that even though I loved the feeling and wanted to do it again, it would be difficult to hide, because I play soccer and have to wear sleeveless jerseys. Well obviously one of my friends noticed the slashes on my arm, and told a teacher that both of us are somewhat close with, I ended up talking to her, she called my mom and then my mom dragged my ass out to a psychologist. I was diagnosed with depression and am now on meds. I still have the urge to cut but it’s getting hot where I live and I can’t hide it anymore, I am so embarrassed of it that I haven’t cut for a few weeks now, but I still feel like there is something missing, I would love to talk to someone, my screen name is drjimmydamnit (AIM) and my e-mail is


Copyright Lisa

I just thought maybe I should make some kind of contribution to this site, after reading so many amazing things here that I can relate to so well. Well here we go:

My name is Lisa. I started SI when I was about 14. I am now almost 16. I can’t remember the exact first time when I first hurt myself. I know I’ve done it lots of times before I was 14, but I only seriously started around that time. I remember a girl in my class showed up to school with cuts all over her arms and everyone was talking behind her back saying things like “man she’s lost it” or “what an attention seeker”, but strangely I felt I could understand why she did it. So a few weeks later I tried scratching my arm with a razor. At first I was like “uhm… ok… why the hell did I do that? It doesn’t do anything.”

The first scratches I made I remember looked a bit like I had scratched my wrist along barnacles (those rough things that stick to rocks in the ocean). And they hardly bled at all. Well, one thing turned to another, and suddenly I had scars all up my arm and had to get stitches about 3 times. I hate showing people my scars. They give me this look like ‘oh you poor thing’ but then this kind of disgust crosses their face and they turn away and leave me alone. I guess it’s because they don’t want to let evil corrupt them like I did. Anyway — I can’t even remember the reason why I started cutting. It was just a desperate attempt to find peace. I don’t know. Now I have scars on my left arm, both thighs, and just below my stomach. I guess you could say I’m lucky — my mum has tried everything to get me better — now I’ve told 9 people my story, and none of them could help me. But I could have told them before they can’t help — I don’t want to change. Oh, well. What’s done is done. I hate going out with my so called “friends” like I just feel so alone, somehow a different sort of alone than when I’m at home by myself — that’s just ecstasy. But like I don’t have anyone to talk to that actually wants to know and can understand how I feel and I therefore long for some kind of friend that can help me — and I can help them. I don’t know — just someone who wants to understand me. I don’t think that makes any sense at all, but if you are interested in e-mailing me just to talk or whatever you wanna do — girl or guy — I don’t mind. Please e-mail me on

I’ve tried to kill myself a number of times, but they were rather lame attempts — once I tried to get so drunk that I got coma’d out, and went to hospital, but that didn’t help because I wanted to die, not live. Then I tried to OD on anti-depressants. I took the whole packet which was approximately 30 pills. But it didn’t do anything. Of course. I should have known. Then I tried to cut myself really, really deep, but I just ended up getting stitches, and a lot of disapproving looks. Well I’m trying to move on. Trying to figure out why I got depressed in the first place; and yeah it would be really great to chat to someone who feels alone too — maybe we can help each other (but I guess there’s a problem there, because I don’t wanna get better, but I can try). OK, well I guess that’s enough from me. I really feel for the people out there stuck with this enticing addiction — I wish you all the best of luck for your lives!


Copyright Lisa

From as far back as I can remember I self harmed. When I was young I got angry so I punched myself hard. Sometimes it would bruise sometimes it wouldn’t. I also scratched myself. I carried on hitting and scratching myself until I was 14.

When I was 14 I cut myself with scissors then a pen knife and now razors. When I do it I feel so better it’s the only time my smile is not fake.

On the outside I act like I couldn’t be happier except for a few people no one knows how much pain I’m in.

Every day after school I cut myself on my arm. It used to be 5 times a night then 10, 15, 25, now it’s about 30-40 times a day. I do it after school and before I go to bed.

I haven’t cut myself for two weeks so now I punch myself. The reason I have temporarily stopped is because I’m going on holiday and although my mum knows she thinks I have stopped.

Thinking of stopping self harm all together scares the hell out of me but never stopping also scares the hell out of me.


Permanent location: