Copyright Michelle

I can’t bleed anymore. I just cut my thigh and I won’t bleed. I tried my razor and a knife, I even got the thingy to sharpen it. I can’t pour blood like I use to. I pushed hard, I even cut at a slant. It doesn’t hurt and it won’t bleed. What the fuck? I cut for the bleeding, I like to watch my blood gush out and now it won’t. It makes me want to cut harder and deeper just to make it bleed. It scares me. I’ve been like this the last couple times I’ve cut. I want it to bleed so bad that I’m scared that I’ll go too far.

Cutting’s the only thing that keeps me sane. It makes me go numb, but heightens all my senses. It contradicts itself so much and that’s what I like. I hate how people think cutting is a problem with your brain or whatever. Yeah, shit like depression and bipolar and so on can give it a push or whatever but really cutting is not something you can just give medicine for. I hate how people who don’t understand act like they do and argue with you about how they understand and they know you need help. I don’t need any fucking help, thank you. I’m perfectly fine by myself.

Yeah, this shit is all so random but I don’t care I’m venting here.

I read some guys personal story on here and he said something like ‘We don’t have the right to do this to ourselves. God gave us these bodies and sacrificed his so we can’t do this’. I’ll be damned if I don’t have the right to do this to myself. It’s my fucking body! I can do whatever the fuck I want to it. He also said something like ‘God loves us all’. If he loves me so fucking much then why is all this shit happening? Why was my father a druggie and he left my mom and me when I was five fucking months old and my mom was seventeen? Why the fuck did my mom’s ex boyfriend molest me when I was seven years old? Why did it happen to me again when I was twelve by my cousin? Why is my mom now married to a guy she doesn’t even want to be married to and he’s a fucking dick who likes to knock people down stairs on purpose? Why did the person I was in fucking love with and I would kill myself for leave me for a fucking slut when I was fucking pregnant and only fourteen years old? Why didn’t he come with me to the fucking doctors? All my friends who believe in fucking God say shit like ‘why do you think you wake up in the morning? Do you think it’s just luck? God, lets you wake up. He allows you to do this he allows you to do this.’ I’ve never been a religious person and I don’t know shit about God or anything but what I’m getting is that he decides what we go through in our lives. If this is true then what the fuck did I do to deserve all this? I’ve always tried to make other people happy and show them love because I always thought that if you make someone happy then they’ll make you happy in return. Ever since me and my boyfriend broke up I haven’t been happy and no matter how hard I try I can’t make myself happy.

I’m not blaming everything that’s happened to me on God because I don’t believe in him so how can you blame someone who doesn’t exist? And once again I’m just venting, I’m not trying to disrespect anyone who does believe in God. They’re your beliefs and I respect that. I just wish everything would be alright again. Not that it was ever that great but just better. To where I didn’t have to rely on my razor and to where I didn’t want to make myself bleed. Though it may sound ridiculous, I’m glad I found cutting. It makes me happy when nothing else does, even if it is hurting me in the long run. But so do people so whats the difference really?

I feel that people decide what they’re gonna do and in some cases what they’re gonna do to other people. I think you make your own life and the only person you answer to is yourself (techinacally minus parents and everything). I watch movies and shit where people go to the church to confess their sins and beg for forgiveness. I don’t see half the shit that the church says is ‘sinful’ as something bad, and I’m not gonna beg for forgiveness when I dont see myself as doing anything wrong. I don’t think it’s wrong to have sex before you’re married, I don’t think its wrong to be gay or bi, I don’t think its wrong to mutilate yourself. When I think about it, cutting is kinda like confessing my sins. I’m feeling angry/upset/murderous for a reason and I’m cutting to make myself feel better. It’s kind of a long stretch metaphor but whatever.

I would never tell anyone to start cutting but I would never tell anyone to stop either. I know what it feels like and how addicting it is. I know how much it can hurt though and much it can fuck you up. I haven’t tried to stop cutting and at the current moment I don’t want to. I haven’t found a better way to deal with my problems and I don’t think I will for a while. So until that day comes I guess I’m just slowly cutting peices of me away. If you want to talk IM me at taintedXdreamz13. I’m always up for talking.

This is Me

Copyright Michelle

Cutting is a habit that I regret to say has become an enjoyable pastime. Half of the time when I am cutting it isn’t because I am sad or stressed it’s because it has become an addiction and I crave it.

I first started cutting when I was fourteen, I was in a fight with some friends and just started scratching my neck. It just felt so good, like a release and at the same time a way to prove how much they were hurting me. I didn’t show them my cuts, it was only for me. I gradually moved from scratching to using a comb, then came glass, knives, pretty much anything I could get my hands on. I began cutting almost every day sometimes twice a day. Until my mom found out and made me go to a psychologist. Now I know therapists are good people but I have gone to plenty in my lifetime and found that they never help. A couple of them even told me that maybe I am not ready to stop and it’s OK to continue. At that point I lost all faith in therapists. Also throughout the next couple years I began using a razor blade which is a cutter’s best friend. I would cut all over my body but have found my arms to be my favorite place. They are also the hardest to hide and eventually all of my friends found out. The climax I would say of my cutting life would be this one night where I got really drunk and upset over who knows what and sliced into my arm so bad I needed stitches. It was too bad I was so drunk because I was bleeding much more than normal and I didn’t really think I had to go to the hospital. It ended up getting infected so I told my mom and ended up on anti-depressants. I have been taking these for a while now and find that they don’t work at all, my cravings to cut are still as strong as ever and I think about it all the time. That feeling of the blade cutting into your skin, the hot searing pain is just an indescribable feeling, something I’m not sure if I will ever be able to give up. I love watching the blood oozing out and the burning pain afterward. I’m sure one day I will tire of this but for now it is four years and counting.

Wanting Death

Copyright Michelle

Well, I’m a thirteen-year-old girl. My birthday is November 11th 1990, so I’m turning fourteen soon. There’s a lot of older guys who look at me and are like ‘damn’, but I don’t want any of them. And when I say older, I mean nineteen or twenty years old. I recently just had an awful experience. I had sex with a seventeen year old who I barely even knew. I invited him to my house and everything. The awful part about it was I was trying to save myself for my boyfriend. He’s my age. My boyfriend’s name is Mikel, and he just moved to New Mexico… And I’m still stuck here in Pennsylvania. I miss him like hell and have to wait until Christmas to see him again. I haven’t talked to him in weeks and it’s making everything worse than it needs to be. As of right now, I don’t even know if he still loves me or not. And that’s another thing. Everyone tells me that I don’t love him and he doesn’t love me, just because, “we’re only thirteen and fourteen years old!” Ha, what the fuck do they know? Mikel and I didn’t really talk much in school. We talked on the phone and on the internet the most. We would meet at places in town and walk around or just go to his house. I could sense on him that he really did want to talk to me in school, but it was our friends that were keeping us from that. His friend’s didn’t really like me (even though they didn’t know as anything except “the gothic chick”), and I can’t really say that my friends liked him all that much. So at school it looked like we weren’t even going out… But there was one thing that gave it away; the way when our eyes would meet, we’d go into these starring trances.

I loved when he looked into my eyes. I could read him like a book through his eyes. Anyhow, the only thing now that keeps me happy is when I’m around friends at school (otherwise I dread going to school), or if I go to a friend’s house. I go to my one friend, Christina’s house a lot. She’s one of my best friends. She knows how to listen to me when that’s all I need. She knows when she needs to talk, or when she just needs to listen and not say anything. I don’t know what I would do without her. Christina doesn’t live in the same town as me, and it’s about a hour drive from my place. Well, I’m going to tell you now, a story… Of my self-injury. It started not too long ago, maybe seven months or so. It was a night in January, when I was just experimenting, with a needle on my wrist. I wanted to see how scratches would look on my lower wrist. At first I didn’t go too deep. I didn’t even bleed. I liked the pain a little, and I liked how it looked after the puffiness went away. That’s when I first tried it. Later in January though, is when I found out that Mikel was moving to New Mexico. I was devastated. I didn’t even want to get out of bed the next day. Even though he wasn’t leaving until June, I was still very upset.

As the months started going by — faster and faster — I tried using my needle again. I would scratch over the same spot until it would bleed. I loved the look of dry blood and how it felt. First, I wouldn’t dab my deep scratches with anything because I loved when my blood would dry. I was obsessed with the warmness over the dry blood too. I’d sit there in school and constantly feel my scratches.

Then, as time went by, I quit going over the same spots, I started an ‘M’ on my left upper wrist and a ‘G’ on my right upper wrist. Those are the initials of my Mikel baby. I was getting very good with my needle. A lot of my friend’s didn’t know until I said something. I didn’t tell a lot of people, but somehow it all went so fast. Pretty soon, the whole seventh grade knew about it. And to this day, I still have a pretty good idea of who was telling everybody so fast. Alicia. I hate her so much. We were friends, but then that didn’t last very long. Lindsay (one of my other best friends) told me about her, and I wish I would’ve listened.

I can remember being so sneaking about it, and it was very easy to hide since I was only doing the same scratches over and over again. Eventually, after going over the same ones, they turned into deep cuts. I’d cut where my bracelets would hide them. I wore a lot of bracelets, and I still do for no reason now. Then one day, it slipped, I wasn’t being careful enough. Alicia saw them at lunch, and said to me, “Oh my god! You better stop that right now!” I calmly said back to her, “My friends aren’t making me, and they never would be able to make me, and there’s no fucking reason that you’re gonna get me to stop.” I know it wasn’t the smartest, but I was telling the truth. Also, at that time I didn’t care because my mind was set that I was going to kill myself. Then right after lunch, I seen her talking to the assistant principal in the hallway while everyone was headed up upstairs for their last two classes. I was walking with my friends Jessie, Sadie, and Tasha. I hid behind them, because I seen the assistant principal and Alicia looking for me. Math was my last class that day, and I was in it with my other friend Cassie, I told her how scared I was that they were gonna call me down to the guidance office for cutting. She told me that she had my back and that if they did, come get her. That really meant a lot to me. Then, as I was sitting in enrichment (basically just homeroom for fifty minutes) with my friend Jessica (not Jessie), the classroom phone rang. Mrs. Webster (my homeroom teacher) answered it, and I didn’t breathe the whole time, until she hung up. She paused for a moment then said, “Michelle, the guidance counselor wants to see you.” My heart dropped. I glanced at Jessica, then Mikel (he was also in my homeroom), because I knew that he was wondering what the fuck was going on too. Jessica knew. She knew what they were calling me down there for just as much as I knew. After Mrs. Webster pulled that “you’re not in trouble” shit, I made the long, lonely walk down to the guidance office. I could hear every single heart beat of mine. It echoed in the hallways. My feet felt like they were being tied down with an extra twenty pounds. I was so tempted to seek out the one door that leads to the outside world, out of that prison. I passed kids in grads lower than me, and they just starred. They don’t know what it means when you get sent down to the guidance counselor yet. After I went down the steps and took the right turn down to the hallway to the guidance office, I was getting closer and closer to that room I hated. I was already close to tears.

When I got there, the secretary told me to go right in. He was ready. I wasn’t. I hate it. I hate my life. All these thoughts were running through my head, and I thought about the possibility that it would be for something else, anything but my cutting. I walked into his room, and he closed the door. There was no escape. I was trapped, but I still didn’t want to tell the truth. Then he hit me with that question, and I could barley speak. My eyes were filling up with tears, and I couldn’t see. Everything was a blur.

He demanded to see my arms… And I wouldn’t show him. He grabbed my arms himself, without permission of even touching me! I wanted to scream, but I was too weak, I lost my voice. I was scared. He said, “Oh, we’re gonna have to go down to the nurse, this is pretty bad.” (And at the time I may point out, that it wasn’t bad. It was nothing compared to now.) When we got down to the nurse’s office, she grabbed my arms too! I was so pissed at this point, but only tears streamed down my face. The tears dragged my heavy, dark eyeliner along with them, all the way down, under my chin.

The nurse tried talking to me, and I blocked her out. At this time the tears were slowing, and that pissed expression was now forming. Then all could do is laugh under my breath and look away from her. Then she even had the balls to ask, “What are you thinking right now?” and my response was, “That I hate everyone right now”.

After the nurse said that she had to call my mom, the tears started again. When I calmed myself, the counselor told me that I could go back up to class. I was so upset. I made it up the stairs, and into homeroom, and wiped my cheeks, thinking about Mikel, and what he was thinking. I didn’t want him to be worried, but I could tell he was, but too scared to ask me. When I made it back to my seat and whispered to Jessica what happened, she was as pissed as I was at Alicia. This was all her fault. Eventually, I told Jessica that I needed to go talk to Cassie. Then I started bawling again. I couldn’t help myself. When I went up to her, she knew, and took me to the bathroom. She just held me for a few minutes while I let everything out. I remember this one kid coming up to me after all this happened, at the end of the day when I was at my locker getting my stuff to come home, and asking, “What’s wrong? I seen you in the hall earlier… You were crying”. However, when I turned around, there was no one talking to me. Only people laughing, and walking to their lockers.

My mom eventually found out, even though I deleted all of the messages on the answering machine when I got home. The cutting only got worse. I transferred to a razor blade. This made me bleed more. I liked it. I’m currently in counseling right now, and I can’t cut my arms anymore. The only place that’s still hidden (because I got caught cutting my thighs too) is my ankles.

No one knows about it there except, Trisha, another one of my good friends. And my mind is still telling me to leave this world, just not now.

Feel free to IM me on my AIM screen name Michelle5737 or e-mail me at to talk about anything.


I’ve talked to Mikel (my boyfriend). Everything’s OK. We’re doing good. And also he’s coming up to PA around Christmas time. I’m excited.

However, my cutting has not gotten better at all. I started on my arms again, not really giving a shit. I hate my counseling adviser. Old hag made me sign a “no self harm” contract. Not that I follow it at all. It’s impossible. I can’t live without cutting, and truthfully, I don’t want to be able to break the habit.

My birthday’s coming up really soon — the 11th of November — so I’m pretty excited about that.

I have mixed emotions all the time and feel very numb a lot.

Thanks for taking the time to read.


Well it’s been a year since I put my story on this site. My last update was still when I was thirteen. I’m fourteen now, and turning fifteen soon. My cutting has gotten a lot better. I can actually say that right now there’s no open wounds on my body at all. I still want to all the time and, and wish I could. But we have to make sacrifices for other people, right?

Mikel and I are still together. Our one year anneversary is coming up in a couple days, and I must say, it’s been hard, realizing that we only get to see eachother twice a year. But those times that we do get to see eachother are so unbelieveably magical. I never thought that I could handle a long distance relationship, but the thought of losing him scares the hell out of me. I’m so glad we made it this far and I think that we will be together for a very long time, if not forever.

I passed the 8th grade and now going into the 9th. God, school sucks. This year shouldn’t be as bad though, because I’m in the process of losing weight, and by that time, I shouldn’t be as heavy as I am now. Let’s just hope…

I may have another update in a few months. Depends what happens in my life, could be another year fom now. PM me in the meantime.

They Come in Fours

Copyright Michelle

I am a cutter. I have been doing this for 3-4 years. When I cut it is because I feel such a burning pain on the inside that I feel it must be sown on the outside. My cuts come in four normally unless I am pressed for time or I am nervous someone will walk in. I cut on my thighs and arms. My cuts aren’t random scratches, they are four lines, 3 to 4 inches long that are deep and penetrating. Sometimes I feel that the blood running down my leg is a release. A release from everything, like my soul that bares all the pain is slowly running down my leg. I got caught last year and ended up in a home for kids that self harm as well as kids that don’t, but we all had emotional problems. No one knows I still cut because I hide it. I don’t wear mine on my arm with pride and keep mine in places that you couldn’t normally see. I don’t cut for attention, I am actually really ashamed of it. I wish I could stop but when I do, it all builds up and then I burst. I don’t do random scratches, I do deep penetrating cuts and they come in fours.


Copyright Michelle

My name is Michelle. I am fourteen years old. I cut myself on a regular basis. I use razor blades or knives. I used to use a safety pin but one night I decided to try a knife. It bled more than with a safety pin. Then I tried a razor blade. It made me bleed the most. I love the feeling and the pain of cutting myself. It makes me feel as though I am in control of something finally. I cut just about everyday. I have over four hundred scars and about a hundred new cuts. I don’t know why I ever thought about cutting myself. But one night in the summer before 8th grade I cut myself three times on my right arm for no reason. I was just sitting there and took a safety pin to my arm. My mom asked me what had happened and I laughed and said “Rudy scratched me”. Rudy is my cat. She said “OK” and went back to reading her news paper. I didn’t cut for several months after that. One night in September 2003, I found myself down in my room cutting the hell out of my arm. I cut about thirty times that night. I carved “AH” into my upper arm. Those were the initials of the boy I was in love with. We had gone out for a few days over the summer but he broke up with me. I was really in love with him. I showed him my cuts. He was the only one I showed. He had to go back into his house and I had to go back home. I got online and he IM’ed me. He told me everything was “OK” and there was no need for me to hurt myself because he would always be there for me. The following day me and my sister were downtown and we went to Ajay’s work and saw him for a minute. He came outside and talked to us for a little bit. I’ll never forger the way he looked at me. He looked disgusted with me, like he hated me. I forgot about him. A few months went by and I met a wonderful guy named Tyler. Me and Tyler got along very well. He cut himself too. He asked me out and said “I love you. I have loved you since I met you” and so we started going out. I was so happy with him. I really loved him. A few weeks later we were talking and he said he wanted me to stop cutting myself. I knew I couldn’t do that, so I told him I would stop for him. It was easy for me to hide my cutting from him. He lives in New York and doesn’t talk to any of my friends here. So there was no way he could find out about me still cutting. I told him I cut a few times and he forgave me for it. So it was all OK. He also wanted me to stop drinking and doing drugs. I stopped drinking and drugs for the most part. I still do whip-its and DXM. He doesn’t know about this. He has cut himself a few times over me. Four weeks ago on a Saturday, I called him at 11:26. I remember exactly what happened. We had had a fight earlier that day. We made up and said we loved each other. When I called him at 11:26, I was crying. I didn’t even have to say it was me. He said “Michelle, what’s wrong? Baby whats wrong?” I didn’t speak. I kept crying. He said “baby you’re scaring me. talk to me… Pookie, talk to me”. He calls me pookie. I like it when he does. “Calm down baby. What’s wrong? Baby, please calm down”. I told him I was scared I was going to kill myself. He started crying. It was the first time I had ever heard him that worried about me. He kept saying he loved me and how he can’t lose me. When he said he would kill himself if I killed myself… I died. I finally knew how much he loved me. He had been trying to get me to believe him and how much he loved me. I just couldn’t believe he loved me after the “Ajay thing”. But he proved he loved me and I believed him. He had to get off of the phone because his dad woke up. He said “I love you pookie. I love you so fucking much. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Promise me you will call me tomorrow. I don’t wanna lose you. I don’t wanna let you go but I have to. Call me tomorrow baby. I love you so much”. Then we hung up. I lay in bed and cried for an hour straight. I didn’t hurt myself that night. A few weeks went by. Then this past weekend, he called me at 9:00. I called him right back. He said he had to go and I was really sad that night. I had been crying and all I wanted was to talk to him. He promised me he would call me back as soon as he could. I waited all night for him to call me back. He never did. Because of this, I ended up cutting 107 times. I didn’t tell him about it. Me and Tyler were on the phone last-night. I was tired of lying to him. I told him I had been cutting myself for the past five months when he asked me to stop. He said he was mad at me. Every night me and him would fight, but we always made up within a few minutes. I told Tyler “if I’m dead you can’t break up with me…” and I started crying. He said “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I explained to him that he deserved better. Someone who doesn’t lie, someone who was happy and someone who was there. I told him that I tried killing myself the other night. He almost started crying. I told him I was gonna kill myself. He started crying and he said “my girlfriend killing herself is supposed to make me happy? I love you. Don’t do this to me. I love you. I can’t let you go…” I told him to let me go. He said he couldn’t because he knew if he did, it would be the last time he talked to me. I didn’t kill myself. He proved to me that he loved me. And all I wanted was to be loved by him. He told me he wanted us to start over again.He said he wanted to forget all the bad shit and us start over. We both stopped crying. We said we loved each other. It was about 12:30 and his dad woke up and he got off the phone. Then today my grandmother called me. She found my notebook that I wrote my poems in. She wants to get me counseling. I told her no. I told her if I need counseling then so do my sister and my cousin. I told her I didn’t wanna talk about this anymore and I hung up on her. I don’t get help for my cutting from my family. I get punished. My mom grounds me when I cut and she finds out. It’s bullshit. She doesn’t care. She thinks I’m being stupid and childish. I’m done writing for now.I’m sure I will update in a few weeks. Feel free to read my XANGA (eat_your_spork_out_) or IM me: crying00crimson (AIM) or DEADxDolliesxDrown (Yahoo!). I love you all… Be strong!


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