Liz D

My Story

Copyright Liz D

I suppose my story begins at the easily led age of eleven. I have no real recollection of the event, nor is it something I try to think about. I just remember my mother saying it’s not your fault as I ran into my room. I sat against the door banging my head as the tears wouldn’t stop.

We pick up during the middle of year eight, I was now thirteen. As my best friend secretly battled with self esteem, self injury, and bullying my life awkwardly slid by hers. The other girls in my group, as teen girls tend to do, decided her time was up and as proof of their power decided to kick her out. I won’t lie and say I had no part in it, I won’t lie and say I rebelled against them and stuck by my friend because that’s what friends do. But, I will say it was something I clearly should have done. As the reality that my best pal was now expected to be my worst enemy sunk in, a new enemy arrived. Arriving in my home to be exact. My stepmother.

I remember one night lying in bed, the thought of self-harm had never even occurred to me. I knew what it was but never pictured myself doing it. I went to the kitchen and took out a knife. I went back to my room and contemplated whether or not to do it. In the end I did, a few times. It became a regular thing. It was awkward at first but I got used to it quickly. No one knew for about a month. I had a few close encounters but was always quick with an excuse and they were covered most of the time as it was winter.

Now a few close friends know, but they sort of understand. They know they can’t stop me, and they know it isn’t a great thing to tell my parents as they would be so disappointed. So I guess they don’t really mind. I don’t really mind. I think it is unhealthy is some ways but it doesn’t do that much harm really. Other the the physical bit of course. If it is making someone feel better and keeping them away from suicide then is it something people should try and stop?

You might have heard the song lyrics ‘If life’s not beautiful without the pain, well I’d just rather never ever even see beauty again.’ I agree. Why is that so hard to believe? Just because I may admit to cutting myself open with a razor doesn’t mean I have no concept of what pain is or feels like. So why I am I now the outcast? Does my understanding of complex emotions and dealing with them make me unnatural? If so, this is the life I need.


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