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First, I’d like to say a few words about myself. I’m a fourteen-year-old girl and I have SI’ed for God knows how long. (Time doesn’t seem to matter anymore.) I’m bipolar and I like to bully others. I SI only with razorblade cuts, but when I’m angry I also start to beat my hands against the wall. (That actually hurts like hell later.)

The feeling that I experience when cutting is almost indescribable. That feeling is honestly near to an orgasm. It flies you to sky. The razorblade inside my skin tickles, it doesn’t hurt. It goes so smoothly through my skin. Every time I wish I could push the blade even deeper. I’d like to slice the bone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal. This feeling is just so dangerously addicting. You won’t know, once you’re hooked.

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I started to SI when I was twelve. I was seperated from my best friend (who was more like a sister to me) and was introduced to junior high school. My brother was in a mental health hospital and attempted suicide. My sister was a self injurer when she was my age. My mom is stressed way to much. My dad just doesn’t know his children at all. My brother tried to shoot me with a gun when I was three. I was scared to death. He missed by two centimetres but I could see the evil in his eyes. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I was alone in my family. My house was the house of screams. Everyone was yelling and fighting continuously. My friends didn’t like me at all. Today at the age of thirteen nothing has changed. I was diagnosed with depression. The thought of being alone in this world is scary. I couldn’t take all the people who hated and yelled at me to get out their anger sometimes even hit me. I still feel this way.

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It began long before the first time I cut myself. It began when I first started to doubt myself; to blame myself for the bad things around me. Nothing was beyond my control. In my little 4 year old mind any bad thoughts I had would come true. If I thought too much or too hard about something negative, I would punish myself. For each bad thought, I would have to recite my multiplication tables 10 times. Or something equally arbitrary.

The first time I cut myself was at 13, in church. I remember feeling completely worthless. I hated how out of place I felt, how different I was. I felt like I was going to cry. I took a safety pin out of my jacket pocket and started scraping my forearm. I immediately felt better. Somehow the pain inside was gone and I was able to concentrate on my arm. The physical pain made me very aware of my body and being alive. I took a deep breath and it was over.

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This action was definitally not expected by me. I hid it so well all throughout high school. I was the girl that never did anything bad: I graduated never drinking a drop or doing anything with drugs. I didn’t even hang out with those types really. I was so proud the day I left, but once I got into college I started drinking. A lot.

I thought leaving the university after the first semester, and coming to a community college closer to home would take care of things, but it didn’t really. Things were good for awhile, but it was when I started my second year that my problems became so obvious.

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Inevitable. That’s the way I felt. And I hated it. I was 12 years old, the guy I liked had fallen for someone else, I didn’t have anyone I could deem a “friend”. So I found myself a friend, someone who could make me feel better and release my sorrow. I found myself a knife.

The first time I cut, my intention was to die. Naturally, using the serrated edge of a kitchen knife got me virtually nowhere.

In the beginning, I only cut when I was angry, or hurting. I cut because releasing the pain inside and bringing it out in the form of blood was the best way to release myself from the chains of self-hate.

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I had been cutting now for a few months. I never thought I’d see the day where I brought pain to myself. But I couldn’t let it. It just happened. One time while my friends were over, people were acting stupid and there it was, that beauitful silver color knife just sitting on the table, screaming, “Use me! Use me!” And I did. The first night it was only one or two marks, enough to calm me down, but as the days, weeks, months went on, they kept growing. 10, 20, 30… I couldn’t stop. It was like a drug, a sweet candy, something that calmed me down. I couldn’t understand the emountional pain I was going through, but physical pain, that I understood. Soon it got out of hand, my cuts were growing closer and closer to my wrist and I knew I needed help. Not only for self-injuring myself, but for now what seemed to be suicidal thoughts.

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