My Story

Copyright LittleBoyLost

I have been abused both physically, having had endured my father trying to strangle me to death at the age of seventeen, and being sexually abused by a woman who was trusted by my family when I was eleven. This has scarred me deep inside, perverted my mental landscape, so that everything is dark and sinister.

And the only way I can stop the pain is to sit looking at both my arms dripping with blood, warm wet and very, very red. It sooths away the anger, it soothes away the fear. It is my only friend, and with it, I need no others. I had friends once, and had stopped self harming for three years. But that was a lie, it seems. And this is the truth. The soreness gives me strength to carry on, and to survive, but once the scabs have healed over, I feel a very real panic, and reality starts to fracture again, my heartbeat races, and I can’t eat. So I cut, and my pain fades once more, it’s like valium, without the side effects. Looking now at my arms, I see a faint patchwork on my forearms, all the way up to the shoulders on both arms. I have been doing this for a very long time.

Having done mental health training as part of a service user training group I know it’s an unhealthy coping strategy, that I should replace it with a therapeutic technique, but the words are just that, babble. The meanings have long since faded for me, that part of me long gone. I am now hooked on self harm; I need to do it to continue to exist. Better cut than die I feel. I cannot forgive my inherent badness. There is a dark core to me I am afraid of, and so I cut to both reward myself for getting through another day, and cut myself because I am ashamed of who I am and the guilt eats at me.

This is why I self harm. Perhaps some day I will feel able to move on from this, but not now, not today.


Permanent location: