Just Me

Copyright Ryan

OK, I’m only fifteen, and yet I’ve tried to kill myself too many times to count, and to avail. I’m tired of this world treating me the way it does, I was beaten and abused for seven years by my own schoolmates, it got so bad that I changed schools and moved, I’ve also had serious depression since I was about seven years old. Sometimes I cut myself to see just how much it bleeds, that pain helps to make me forget all my other problems. I’m tired of living, it’s really overrated, people only focus on the good things, and not on the bad things, which usually greatly outweigh the good. No one really realises what true pain really is till they loose all that makes them happy, so that all they have to focus on is the bad. Try never having anything good to block out the bad. The only thing that ever made me happy was my girlfriend, but we broke up. And now there’s nothing, nothing to keep me sane. People don’t ever really realise how they affect you with their hate, not till you’re gone, and they have to think back on what they did to you, and how they affected you, and vice versa. I’ve become acustomed to keeping my emotions all bottled up inside, and never letting them out till I finally just snap, which has happened on occasion. No one ever really takes me seriously, or understands my problems, not till they get slapped in the face by the real truth. The truth is never pretty, but in any case people deserve to know.


Copyright Ryan

I came across this website about forty-five minutes ago. That was at 1 am. My boyfriend is passed out on the floor. We were supposed to be looking at wedding gowns. But he fell asleep. Oh yeah, we’re engaged. So technically he’s my fiance. Regardless, I’m here to tell everyone my story about cutting. I’m eighteen, I turn nineteen this December. Feburary and March of this year I was dating an older man, thirty-two to be exact. i loved him immensely, or thought I did. He broke up with me three days before easter. An hour after I got off the phone with him I got into a huge fight with my mother who’s a fucking drunk. My first thought was “I’m gonna kill that bitch”. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the minute she walked out of the house I grabbed a knife and started slicing at my leg. while in the midst of my cutting my older sister walked into the house drunk (my whole family is a bunch of drunks) looked at me and said, “you’re cutting? well, if youre gonna cut at least make it deep enough so you kill yourself.” Wow, thanks for the advice you dumb bitch. Anyway, March was when I started cutting, and now I’m officially up to thirty-seven scars. Mainly on my legs so when I go out in a skirt or shorts I tend to hear snide remarks about my cuts, but no one has ever had the balls to say something to me. But I realised that while I was reading everyone else’s stories that most of you actually like the way it feels when the blade breaks skin and draws blood. I don’t. I fucking hate it. I hate the scars and the blood. The last time I cut was six weeks ago. No, I didn’t go to a psych ward, or any of the bullcrap. I just simply refuse to let cutting take over my life. I have a gorgeous body great face and personality, and it’s just not worth it. Regardless of if your parents physically abuse you or sexually abuse you, if you cut yourself, you’re letting them win. That means that they really are hurting you and you’re hurting yourself to deal with the pain they’ve inflicted. Keep a few things in mind before you cut:

  1. How are you ever going to explain to your children once they’re old enough how you got all those scars?
  2. What is the next person you date going to think of your scars? Will you tell him or her the truth?
  3. What are you going to do when you get older and eventually stop cutting but still have these scars?

I know it probably seems stupid for me to ask these questions considering I used to cut, but that’s how I’ve been helping myself. And if my story doesn’t help you or you can’t relate, please keep reading, you’re bound to relate to someone.


Copyright Ryan

My first suicidal feeling came in puberty. Before I was a nerdy, bright kid that had a few good friends. But after I lost some of the friends, and became more shy. I would get the key to my dad’s gun cabinet and just sit in front of it wishing I could go further.

Things haven’t gotten much better. I’m now thirty and it seems so much of my life has passed me by. I feel quite often that the only thing holding me back from killing myself now is my family. I don’t want to hurt them, but my life is coming apart.

There are good ways of handling depression and bad ones. Over the last three years stress and anxiety have caused me to become short and easily prone to anger. I have made mistakes time and time again because I feel too stressed out to manage all of the little details. I have looked at pornography for far too long and it has colored my daily life. It’s no longer a closet habit, that I can consciously hide.

I feel this coming Monday it is all ending, and I will be fired. The funny thing is I’m a good person basically, I’m just really troubled right now.

I’ve been going to church and that has been helping, but I feel too proud to fall now, too proud to fail. I don’t see much hope in keeping on.


Copyright Ryan

I wrote this a couple of days ago to someone I wanted to talk to:

Hello. I’m a 17 year old high school Junior male. That’s about all that I am. I started cutting myself because I wasn’t who I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be influenced by sex. I didn’t want to be controlled by people who flash themselves around. And cutting helped me to achieve this goal. I now can say that I hate everyone and everything that is sexy. This is who I am, and this is what I want. I obviously saw a therapist and he helped and understood, but recently I started talking to this girl that I’ve always liked. She seemed so strong and free; until she told me about her past which is very much darker than mine. She would cry all night and take sleeping pills and she still cuts herself occasionally. I cannot really describe what I feel about her. I want to feel her pain, but she is very defensive. In all reality I feel like a piece of shit. I feel like I’m not good enough, that my pain is not as great as hers and it makes me want to vomit. She can simply say: ‘You don’t know how I feel’ and I know she will be right. I want to feel that low; that horrible hopelessness. I realize now that I don’t really want to be happy, but I want to suffer. I’m not sure if I want to die. I told my mom numerous times that this is the weak way out, but now I’m not so sure. But I do feel like going out and appalling people. I think that I will cut my usual places, only deeper so that they bleed more. I will put on a shirt and the blood will seep through. Then I will gash my tounge so that blood runs from my mouth; and then perhaps my wrists and neck, but not deep enough to border death. Then I will put on my coat, crank up my cd player, and go for a walk around town. This is what I want, but I’m waiting for a good day when my family is not around to stop me. The fantasy grows in my head and if I do not carry it out then I will hate myself that much more. Plus, my scars are fading and I want them there. I need them there.

I couldn’t go through with the whole thing, but I feel I have made some progress, as sick as that sounds. It’s strange. How brilliant and beautiful blood is when it flows from the body, but how dark, morbid and flaky it becomes when it’s dry. Sometimes I wish that I was a girl. Most men would never admit this, but now I know it to be true. I do wish that I were a woman, that way I would have more to feel bad for, I could feel more repressed. But most of all, I could actually have emotions that come out rather than just boil within me. I want to cry, and to vomit, and to die. These are the three great releases. But I can’t cry; sure my eyes water up every time I go for a walk and occationally some tears will make it to my cheek, but I can never just let it all out. Why must I be this way? Because I am a fucking man, that’s why. I feel like I’ve been cheated. Cheated out of something grand. I cannot be proud to be a man. I don’t even know what one is. If it’s what television tells me it is, then I would rather (insert something godawful here) than be a man. Why do I have to know how to fight? Why does it matter whose ass I can kick? Why must my intellegence be insulted every time I turn on the television? Why must I be interested in sex and cars? Why can’t I fucking cry? Why can’t I suffer at this level? It all amounts to nothing I tell you. The worst part of it all is that I hear all of these horror stories about cutting and attempted suicide, but I am so weak myself that I probably couldn’t cut that deep or try that hard to kill myself. The thought makes me sick, that I’m so weak that I can’t even do that.


Copyright Ryan

Hi again, this is Ryan and it’s been four years since these last things I wrote here. A lot has changed since then. I stopped cutting for one, which is a very good thing in my humble opinion. Life, of course, hasn’t been without its gut wrenching pain consumed by a terrible darkness from time to time though. But what hasn’t killed me has only made me stronger. I’ve lived through the suicide attempts of some of my closest friends during a time when I myself was severely unstable and found that I myself can be a source of warmth for other people in my small ways. A faint glow in a sea of cold confusion. A few things I’ve learned:

Don’t make a martyr of yourself.

Don’t wait to be saved, it’s in your hands.

People are looking for you. Stand up so they can see you.

Get into something connected to your life. It helps to have hobbies.

If you’d like to talk, drop me an email or something. IM me too if you like. Especially if it’s urgent. Crisis lines can prevent crisis’, but they aren’t the best listeners and usually try to tell you what your feeling. Get therapy too and don’t be ashamed to ask for it. Don’t believe Tom Cruise, if you get a good therapist, it can change your life. (Note on that reference: Tom Cruise is a Scientologist who confesses his sins to a clergyman called an ‘auditor’ and thinks pshychiatry is phony balony.)


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