The First Wounds

Copyright Razorsedge

I am not your typical self-injurer, and I never could see myself being the one to do something like this, never. I mean, I was a talker, I could talk about all my problems, and if I couldn’t talk I would draw, paint, write songs or poetry. But one day they lost their ability to help me with my problems. My parents split, my mom got depressed and suicidal, my baby brother was not even a year old and here I am not even thirteen and raising a child that wasn’t mine. And on top of that my mom would yell at me and tell me I was a mistake and she hated me because I didn’t work. She told me she only got pregnant with me to keep their marriage when my daddy had filed for divorce the first time. My brother was her second attempt to save the marriage. But we failed her, or so she says. So one night after I got home from cheering (oh yeah, I was the all american girl) and couldn’t talk to anyone and I couldn’t cry I didn’t understand what was happening to my life, so I began to grip my arm so tightly that my nails broke the skin and I began to bleed. All of a sudden things weren’t so bad. I was more worried about my bloody arm than my emotional problems, and I realised that it made me feel better, so then I began to self injure on a regular basis. Just on my thighs and stomach because I was still cheering (only to convince everyone I was happy) and they believed it. It slowly progressed into a major part of my life. I was almost sixteen and I wouldn’t date. My mom always asked me why I didn’t date and I just said I didn’t like anyone that way (lie, really I just didn’t want to let a guy get close enough to be able to hurt me). Then I met him, that’s right the loser who screwed things up really badly for me. Anyways, we got really close and one night we got really physical and my shirt came up and he saw a fresh cut and said what is that (with a few other choice words), and I told him. He called me a psychotic freak and told me I needed help and he never wanted to see me again. So it ended that night, and my self injury got worse, like at one point I had made over fifty-seven marks in fifteen minutes of cutting. My thighs bled so bad and my arm was covered with bloody words like numb, alone, stupid, worthless. And it continued like that for the next few months and I couldn’t talk to anyone I almost lost my best friend. I am now almost seventeen and self-injury is still a part of my life. My brother is now five, and there is a new guy in my life, Jesse, and he knows about it and he always tells me he is there for me, but I am still not letting my guard down. But maybe one day… who knows. I am know talking about my problems and getting help. I found that snapping a rubber band is a safe alternative to cutting, it helps a little. So, anyone, send me your story or just to talk.


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