Psyke.org

Nikki

Dying Inside

Copyright, Nikki

I started self-harming before I even knew what to call it. From about age eight or nine I would bang my wrists on the edge of the desk in my room until it was swollen and bruised. I would also slap myself from time to time. I started scratching when I was about eleven and at age fourteen began using razors and then at seventeen I started using a serrated camping knife I’d bought. I was in the hospital more often than not between the ages of fifteen and seventeen and then one more time when I was nineteen. I’m now twenty-one almost twenty-two.

I really tried to stop. I’d try off and on, once for as long as nine months before I started again. Then, I’d go a couple of weeks and be back to it. The longest I ever stopped was seventeen months. Then I blew it.

I think it started because my home life was really screwed up. My parents yelled a lot, but nothing really drastic. When I was thirteen I remembered that I had been sexually abused when I was five. It was only once instance that I could remember, but it royally screwed me over. My folks didn’t find out about it until I was fifteen and all they did was send me to a shrink. Also, the first time my mom saw the scratches I’d done all over my arms, she didn’t bother trying to find out why I’d done it, she just said if I did it again she’d “send me away to someplace that deals with people that do that kind of thing”. I didn’t stop. I just got better at hiding it. That’s one reason I started using razors. It’s a lot easier to explain away than these huge scratches all over.

It was around about July of 2005. I had just moved out of my mom’s, found out my dad was moving out soon, was having a falling out with the guy who’d been my best friend for four years, plus… I missed it. So I started again. More recently, though, I remembered more stuff I’d repressed involving my dad. More sexual abuse that went on from about age six until around age ten or so. Right now, I just don’t know how else to deal with it. I told a guy that I used to be really close with and he’s helping me find information on possible legal stuff, but… yeah. I don’t wanna bother him and his wife too much. Sometimes it feels like someone is sitting on my chest; where every single breath hurts. I lay in my bed at night and wish that the next breath I take will be my last, but it never is. I’ve realized that I completely suck at trying to kill myself, but I haven’t ruled out trying again.

I’m just sick to death of everything. I don’t remember if I saw it on here or somewhere else, but it says, “Your tears run down your cheeks, mine run down my arm.” That’s it for me. I don’t think I can cry anymore, not to mention I’m scared to. I’m scared that if I let myself cry or feel in general that I’ll lose it. Right now, my mom doesn’t know and I’d rather keep it that way. We’ve gotten closer over the years, but she’s got enough to deal with without me adding my shit to the mix.

So, like yesterday, today, and I’m sure tomorrow, I’ll put on a happy face for everyone. I’ll smile and act like everything is alright when deep down I just want to die.

My Own Story

Copyright, Nikki

Alright, I know I’m not innocent. Because if I was you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Cutting is really bad and all, but how can something that feels so good, be so wrong? I’ll tell you. It’s not the medical part of it, because I’m pretty sure you guys have heard it all, been there and done that. ‘You could get infections’. Yes, but guess what, we never do. It’s not my health that I’m worried about. It’s my relationship. OK, now I know you people, God I hate that word. Think that this is pretty korny that ‘Oh, so what, he’s got a girlfriend and he’s worried about her’. Well, yes, actually I am worried about her. See, ever since I started cutting myself it felt really good. But since she found out and started it I really do worry about her. Because I know she feels pain and not the relief like I do. So now when I cut, I think of her. And all that pain makes me want to do it even deeper, and deeper. Until my arm finally falls of. I thought that little segment was pretty funny. Oh well. I really didn’t know why in the hell I wrote this but I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s not only you that you’re hurting when you cut yourself. It’s others around you. People think that it’s a new fad (and I remember when it was) and they start to do it, And before you know it, kids like you are killing themseves over something so stupid. Ah, what the hell am I talking about? I could care less how many people die. The world is overpopulated anyway. And they mourn when somebody does die. Fucking idiots.

My Story

Copyright, Nikki

My name is Nikki, I am thirteen years old. I’m a cutter. I have been cutting since I was eleven years old. I was raped when I was eleven. I’ve been messed up ever since. Everyone thinks I’m crazy. I don’t think so. I was put on Prozac when I was twelve. It sucks. I want to get better, but then again, I don’t. I feel like nobody understands me.

Update

I have more to say about myself: At my school, I’m ‘classified’ as a cutter. Nobody understands me. Like I said before, I was raped when I was eleven years old. By a forty-one year old man named Eugene. That was the hardest time in my life. My grandma died a little bit before that. She died of lung cancer. That was hard. Now, I just told my mom about Eugene. I told her in April, I think. Of this year. Yes, two years later. I want someone to talk to, to confide in on here. Someone that also cuts. So they know what I’m going through. I want a friend! Help me if you can. But I don’t want to quit.

Help

Copyright, Nikki

I began cutting in January 2004. When I started, I didn’t even start with little scratches. I started right off with pipe cleaners, carving grooves in my arms, while my friend who I shared a room with in Spring Harbor (a psychiatric ward) carved ‘FUCK YOU’ in her arm. The cuts didn’t bleed much, but they caused pain. Pain I needed to overcome my anger and emotional pain. Pain I needed to cause myself problems. I can even remember the first time I did it. My roommate told me about cutting, and she told me I could get pipe cleaners from the art room. That night, before I went to bed, I sat in the bathroom, the only place with no cameras, and cut. I think it was eight times the first night. I did it every day after that. After the hospital, I was sent to a shelter, and I cut about every other day to every other day. Until I told someone, and I stopped, for thirteen days, then I started again, and got kicked out of the shelter, because I told someone. I was sent back to live with my dad, and things gradually got worse. I was with my dad from Febuary 4th to June 1st 2004. The last day of May, my step-mother beat the shit out of me, and I got kicked out for the second time in eight months. I was sent to live with my mom in Pennsylvania. I quit for a couple of months, until I met my ex-boyfriend, Jamie. I don’t know what happened, but I started cutting again. First, it was about once a week, then it got worse when we broke up, one month later, in October 2004. And now it is November 2004, and I just turned sixteen on the 10th, and I am cutting every day. So far, I’ve gone five days without, but it’s only because I’ve been staying with friends, which helps me a lot, because I can’t cut at other people’s houses. I have some sort of fear of cutting any place other than where I live, my house. Sometimes I want to quit. Other times, it’s like, hell no! I ain’t quitting. If I quit, I would die. Cutting helps me live. But at the end of this month, I’m thinking about checking myself into a psychiatric ward. I want help. And what makes everything worse is, I won’t eat. Can’t eat. Food makes me sick. Even just the smell of it. And when I do eat, I usually eat slowly, and cut my food into little pieces. I need help. I know I am deteriorating in front of everyone. I even go to church, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.

My Story

Copyright, Nikki

I started cutting about ten months ago, in January 2004, while I was in a psych ward, so to call it. I wasn’t cutting until I was roomed with a cutter. (Chain reaction cutting.) I’ve been cutting ever since. The longest I’ve stopped for was thirteen days. I’ve been ridiculed and called stupid for it, and I got kicked out of shelters for it too, so I had to go back and live with my dad, which only made things worse. I’m living with my mom now.

Cutting is a release for me. Something that makes me feel so much better. Sometimes, I’ll be the happiest person in the world, and all I can think about doing, is cutting. After I cut, all I can think about is the blood. It’s so red and pure. And after the blood, is the regret, the fear that someone will find out. It sucks. I only wish I could stop.

Pain

Copyright, Nikki

To relieve the pain I would cut myself with a razor blade. It felt that I deserved it. The pain would run though my body, giving me time to forget everything. It gave me time for freedom, dreaming and relaxation.

Untitled

Copyright, Nikki

I have been doing self harm for about nine years now. It all started when I was very young. My mom and dad were divorced when I was three. Then two years later my mom died. That was what broke me. I stopped eating, and barely slept. I wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even my dad. After about a few months of this, I passed out from exhaustion, and had to be put in the hospital. They fed me through an IV in my arm. I was in there for a few months. My grandma died when I was seven and my granddad, when I was nine. Through the next eight years, I starved myself, cut, burned, and did anything to harm myself. Today my dad has re-married, divorced, and is now re-marrying again. My step-mother died in a car accident, after the divorce. I have been to a number of therapists, psychs, doctors, and everything. Nothing has worked…

Untitled

Copyright, Nikki

I haven’t been cutting for very long, maybe 2 weeks. I do it once a day. I don’t have any ritual or anything, it’s just when I feel angry, depressed, or negative emotion, I turn to cutting. At first, I thought it was for attention, to be different, but now, I don’t want anyone to see them, although I do wish some of my closer friends and family members would at least notice. I don’t really see what’s so wrong with it, but my mother tells me that it means there’s something terribly wrong with me, and if anyone ever found out, I’d be put in a mental institution, especially considering I’m only 13 years old. Sorry to have made this so long, it was a good way to vent for me.

 

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