Featured Stories

Sarah D

I think it started when I was about seven. I’m not sure how it came about but it started with me pulling out my eyelashes. When I was about eight or nine, I had no eyelashes and had moved on to pulling out hair from my head. By the time I was in grade 5 I had a noticeable bald patch on the crown of my head. My mum noticed one day when she was doing my hair. She was angry, and that’s all I can remember of her reaction. I never really understood why I was doing it. It was like a build up of tension in an area, the feeling was like a mixture between a dull ache, an itch, and just something annoying. When I pulled out the hair, the immediate feeling wasn’t pain, it felt good, and the tension went away. But like any addiction, the more you do it, the more often you have to do it.

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Do you ever feel that bad things seem to follow you and then when things are going just fine they decide to hit you right in the face? I hate when that happens. Anyway to my story. When I was young I had a great life until things started to go wrong. My mum had left me with my dad and so everyday I used to wonder why everyone was getting picked up after school by their mums and I was getting picked up by a babysitter because my dad was always at work. Anyway, when I was about ten my dad hired a new babysitter. He used to sexually abuse me and it took me about a year to pluck up the courage and tell my dad.

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Featured Stories


My parents are fighting again. And it’s a bad one too. All I’ve been hearing recently is shouting, when I turn up my music and try to block it out, they scream at me to turn it down. They don’t give a fuck about me, they don’t give a fuck what I feel, or think, they are totally oblivious to my mental state. For fuck’s sake, look at me! I’m a fucking psycho, and they still refuse to believe there’s something wrong, as long as I’m a “productive and conforming member of society”. Fuck society. It’s started again, I can hear them screaming in the hall, outside my room. There’s no way I can relieve the stress, and they don’t believe I have stress because I’m only 14, but wouldn’t that explain the high suicide stats? Oh, they don’t think I’d ever suicide, simply because they are my parents. Like I should be thankful to have them to look after me. Well I got news for you, I never asked to be born.

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I am a college student, but I have been a cutter since my seventh grade year. I am writing to tell you my experience with suicide in the hopes to deter anyone else from harming themselves.

This past summer was hell. I knew it right from June and straight through till August when classes started up. I have lived with a lot of trauma in my family, and keeping all of my feelings bottled up never helped. But this summer was supposed to be different. I was away from all the problems and I had finally begun to figure out who I was and where I was going. But tragedy struck in July and all of those depression-like symptons took a new twist and I had no control.

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My name is Sarah. I’m 16 years old and a self injurer. But unlike many self injurers out there, my reasons for being this way are different. I was not abused. I was not raped or molested as a child. I was not in a foster home. On the contrary, my parents both love me and I’m very close with them, as well as my two brothers and one sister. My self injury stems from the disorder I have.

You see, I’m a heavier girl. I’ve never been thin and I never will be. Toned, perhaps, but never like the “others.” I was very introverted as a child and showed signs of depression from my early years.

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I’m sat alone crying my eyes out trying to figure out where it all went wrong. All I really knew was that it hurt so much inside. I wanted to scream and laugh and beat the walls, but it all seemed so pointless. I had no idea how I could make I it stop hurting inside, but I just knew that I had to do something. I stood up to get something to wipe my eyes and, because it was pitch black in the room, I tripped over something and hurt my arm. When I got to the light to switch it on I noticed blood on my arm; I’d accidentally scrapped myself with a pair of scissors that were on the sideboard. When I got back to my seat I just sat watching my arm bleed and bleed… I didn’t care at all, I was past caring about what happened to me.

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Slices of Me

My junior year of high school was the worst year of my entire life. I started getting depressed at the end of my sophomore year and it got worse over the summer. By the time junior year came around I really didn’t care about anything.

I thought about death all of the time, I fantasized about it, wondering what it would be like. I decided that I wasn’t going to let anyone find out about my problems, I was ashamed of myself. I felt that I wasn’t good enough and my friends would only leave me if they knew how I felt. I was constantly worried about my image. I was anorexic and I cut myself all the time because I was disgusted with my body. I was 5 ft 6 in and I only weighed 119, but I still thought I was fat. I hated myself.

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It started a little over a year ago. That night it seemed that everything had gone wrong. I was mad at my parents and my sister, I had put off my big homework assignment that was due the next day. I sat on the stairs waiting for my mom to get home so I could complain at her. I don’t know why, but I had this urge to hurt myself. At that time my thumbnail was quite long and I repeatedly scraped it along my wrist until it was red. After I had been on the stairs for a while I became tired and went to my bed. I lay there for what seemed like forever. I rubbed my hand over the bumpy part of my wrist I had hurt. The wound was painful, but I felt a strange comfort in it. That was the beginning of my cutting and depression.

Read the rest of Stella’s story…


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