My Battle with Self Injury

Copyright, Samantha

I would like to tell you all of my own battle with self injury.

It all began when I was very young, I’m not sure how young. Maybe seven. The year that I turned seven my parents were fighting a lot. My mom was cheating on my dad with her friend’s husband. My dad was always being mean to my mom, so I can’t really blame her now. But then, when I was seven, seeing my dad cry late at night, waiting for my mom to return home, it was a very big emotional strain for such a small child. After a couple of months of my mother’s cheating, she left my dad. Taking me with her to a different state to start a new life with this guy I didn’t know. I was very open-minded to this new man, though. I liked him. He was funny, sweet, and he bought me new toys. How can a child refuse to like a man that buys her new toys? Well, when my mother and father’s divorce was final, I had to spend every other weekend with my dad. Every time I saw him he would remind me that my mother was a lying, deceiving whore, and that I would end up just like her. He told me that my mom and her new boyfriend were on drugs, that they stole, that both of them were liars and he hated me for leaving him and living with them. I was seven. It hurt me, a lot. I never knew what to say to him when he was crying over my empty bed, my abandoned toys, the otherwise empty house I’d left him with.

My mom told me it wasn’t my fault and that daddy was just sad. But somehow I never believed her. I always thought it was my fault. It was. I’m not sure how I did it, I’m not sure why I did it. But one night when I was lying awake in my new bed in a new apartment in a new state, I walked over to my backpack that held my crayons, sketch pad, coloured pencils and scissors. Back then it was OK for kids to use the sharp kind of scissors, now I’ve been informed that the school I used to go to doesn’t allow them. Anyway, I took out the scissors, and was mesmerised by the sharp, shiny points on either side of the handles. I took the sharper side to my right arm. And cut it, very slowly. To my amazement, I loved the feeling of it. The freshness of a new wound. The tingling. And above all, seeing my own blood. At the time, my mother was accustomed to seeing me naked. After the one time of cutting my arm, I moved on to my legs and my belly. I only cut a few times after that.

When I was twelve I was a confused little girl, trying to grow up. I think I was in 6th grade, nearing the end of it. It was after our Christmas break. I started wearing a lot of black clothes. Kids started making fun of me. Saying I was ‘gothic’ and this, that and the other. I was already being made fun of for being fat, and now ‘gothic’? Besides, I didn’t know what ‘gothic’ was. I resorted back to my cutting. Except this time, I used the blades from pencil sharpeners. In seventh grade I became friends with one of my old friends from elementary school. One day we were sitting in our math class, partnered up, when I needed a book from a high shelf. That’s when my sleeves raised and he saw my fresh cuts. I saw tears in his eyes as he stood there, looking at them. I just froze. No eyes but mine had ever saw my inflicted wounds. A few minutes later we were in the corner of our class, and he raised up his own sleeves. He had cuts too. We talked about why and how we did it. How we started, and all that.

In 8th grade, cutting became some sort of sick fad. All of my friends were doing it. Pretending to be depressed. Mocking me and my best friend in some sick, pleasurable way. They weren’t really hurt. They didn’t like the pain. They winced at their tiny scratches, that barely broke the skin. And then, they really started to piss us off. They had told a teacher about our cuts. My friend and I were personally checked by our science teacher, God bless her. Luckily, at that moment in time, we were clean. She told our so called ‘friends’ to stop messing with us. But she also said if we needed help, to tell her. We never did. Soon after we both developed eating disorders.

Over the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I was molested, and then later, raped.After that, I gave up on everything. I started smoking pot, experimenting with cocaine, I started smoking cigarettes again, cutting more and more.

A few days ago,I found out I had had a miscarriage with that person’s baby. I didn’t want it in the least bit. But I would’ve kept it, and raised it with love. And a pregnancy, whether lost, aborted, or kept, is a major impact on a girl’s life.

Since that year of 7th grade, I’ve OD’ed nineteen times. Ten out of the nineteen times, I should’ve died. I’ve OD’ed in smaller amounts since then, at least once a week. I’m a regular cutter now. Sometimes every day. Sometimes once a week, once a month. I bite my nails until they bleed at times. I pierce my skin with safety pins. I scratch my arms with my chipped nails. I make my friend (not the one mentioned previously) scratch or bite me. I bang my head against walls. I scream and cry for hours on end. On top of all that, I’m still bulimic and anorexic.

I would love to say I’m getting better. I would love to give you all a great amount of advice. But I simply can’t. I’m too afraid and ashamed to get help, and my advice would only be hypocritical. I wish that everyone, including myself could get help for these battles. I wish everyone the best, and if you believe in some God, pray. For everyone who has to go through this. Thank you for reading.


Copyright Sam

I don’t know too many people who understand what I do. I first started to cut a good three years ago. I used a safety pin the first time to make it look like a dog had got me. Then I would pierce stuff like my belly button and my ears. Then one night after fighting with my mom like always I went to my room with a razor and took it apart. I then went into the bathroom and just cut the crap out of both of my arms. I then covered them up and went to bed. Woke up and went to school like nothing had happened. Later on that week I made a star and the word hate and I put my boyfriends name on me. He is now my ex so I covered it with the anarchy sign. I don’t cut as much anymore. I still want to be hardcore, but I don’t want to be put in a hospital. To me, cutting is like making artwork on your body and it’s nice to see the blood. I was happy to learn about this site. It helps me to know that I’m not fully alone.

Unknown to Anyone

Copyright, Sam

I’m thirteen almost fourteen and I’ve been cutting and slitting my wrists since I was about nine. I’ve been put on meds, sent to the psych ward and been put in therapy but nothing helps. I want to quit but I don’t, I feel really bad about it because it hurts a lot of my friends. I’ve cut just about everywhere and with any thing that is sharp (mostly razors). I’ve actually come to say that razors are my best friends because they were there when no one else were. I’ve always thought I was the only one who felt like this until I met my best friend a few years ago. Well, I’d be happy to hear from other people who have gone or is still going through what I am.

Dazed and Confused

Copyright Sam

I’m fifteen and I cut myself. I do it for the relief, because of stress, feeling hopeless, angry, and alone. The first time I did it was a few years ago. I was going through a tough time with my friends, family and school. I guess you could say that I was hanging out with the “wrong crowd” always getting in trouble and my attitude went crazy. I was getting into fights with my parents a lot and school was just a place to get away. After one of the big fights with my parents I was up late and found a knife. I knew a lot of people that cut themselves. I never wanted to be ‘one of them’ I thought I lived a better life than that. I didn’t know what had come over me, I laid the knife on my inner arm and dragged it across, twice. After that I found that to be stupid. My life got better eventually and I didn’t feel all down like I had. A year maybe has gone by and I’m even worse than before. I moved over last summer and I really think that’s been one of the hardest things for me.

It’s not the first time I moved but the first time I really found myself and the people who loved me for me and then had to get up and leave them. I spent the whole summer sulking around with nothing to do. I didn’t make any friends at all. I now live in a neighbourhood that makes me feel like I’m from a different family. I live a rich little suburb full of snotty rich people. I’m different from them, and that’s how they all look at me. None of the kids in this neighbourhood ever took the time to figure me out, to talk to me, to find out who I am. Since I don’t shop at Abercrombie and I wear beat up clothes because they’re comfortable, since I wear old worn out Chuck’s instead of their pricey shoes, they look at me like I’m crazy and never have given me the time of day. Anyway, I recently had a relapse. Back at my old home, I always helped the people with the problems. If my friends were having problems I was there to listen. Now I have no one to listen to and I have the problem. When exams came around this year I was totally stressed out. This curriculum here is a lot harder than I’m used to and all I could worry about was my grades. It started when I was sitting at my desk and just started crying. I couldn’t take any of the stress anymore. I couldn’t take feeling stupid. I scratched my wrist and just couldn’t stop. It bled and I just sat there scratching more and more. I found a pair of scissors laying around and took that to my wrist. It didn’t have the sensation and relief I wanted. I took the razor blade out of my pencil sharpener and slit my arm once, then twice, then I lost count. Too many times I cut myself. But it felt so good. I got through the rest of the exams that week, wearing a sweatshirt. I had found my escape. The only one I trusted here, my boyfriend, I confided in. Cutting myself like that, going crazy like that wasn’t a normal thing for me so I told him. He was shocked and stayed up all night talking to me about it. He thought that if he dug and tried to find the reason that would be that. He came over to my house some day after that and made me show my cuts to him. The look on his face was like a stab in the heart. I never want to see that look on his face ever again. I can’t even describe it but it made me feel awful. That was it for me, for a while. All I had left was the scars I had made on my wrist. I just wore quite a few bracelets in an effort to hide my scars. I don’t know what’s come over me lately. But I’ve had another relapse. Even after talks with my new best friend about cutting and how she thinks it’s pointless and a cowardly escape I can’t reason with her. I’ve been depressed and stressed lately. Too much work when all I feel like doing is slacking. Too many people giving dirty looks. Too many people ignoring my presence. I hate this feeling like I don’t belong. I feel like a f*** up and a failure and I can’t take it anymore. I’m cutting myself again, I want help but I don’t want to get it. I don’t want anyone to know my secret. I’ll cut myself just enough to bleed, but not enough to take my life. Just enough to relieve the pain. Just enough to end my misery, at least for awhile. I don’t know how else to cope. Life sucks and this is how I escape.

I’m a Pixie, I’m a Paper Doll, I’m Sixteen and a Beauty Queen Freak Show Act

Copyright, Sam

I remember starting my first bout of self-injury beginning around 6th or 7th grade. At first, my closest friend at the time, dared me to cut my arm with a knife of hers. Just to see if I had the guts to do it. So… I went home that night and did it. It hurt so bad. So bad I cried like a baby. I never thought of doing something like it ever again. Then, a few months later, began my depressive episodes. My ups and downs. Issues with friends and family. Feeling lonely. Lost. Helpless. Unwanted.

I don’t remember why I actually purposefully cut the first time. Chances are, it was because I was just really depressed some night, and did it.

Around the age of thirteen or fourteen, I began to seriously get into it. Deep slash marks on my inner arms, and upper thighs. Then, one night, December 10, 2003, I overdosed, after a fight with mum. I made stitch-worthy cuts on my thighs. But for some reason, in the hospital, they never found out about them. They were too worried about trying to get the meds out of my system.

That summer, I was sent off to summer camp. It turned out two other girls in my cabin were cutters. I scratched at my arms nonchalantly the three weeks I was there. Just because, I could. But I hid it well.

At fourteen or fifteen I began burning. With lighters and erasers. It became more constant. Ten, fifteen times a week. I’d need a cut or two or five or twenty. Whatever I felt I needed to calm myself that particular day. On October 17, 2003, I got together with my boyfriend. It was wonderful at first. Then, we became more stressed. I was cutting more often. And deeper.

Now, I am sixteen. Been to numerous doctors. None of whom can figure out why I’m so prone to my violence against myself and my mind. I’m now in the category of depressive disorder NOS. and on 40mg of Prozac a day. That hasn’t helped. I’m still with my boyfriend, but not without many fights and nights left crying myself to sleep. But he’s good to me. I’m just so mean to him sometimes. I fuck a lot of things up.

My relationship with my parents is extremely strained. They don’t know I cut. Or, at least haven’t acknowledged it. Recently some co-workers of mine found out. I mean, I really don’t care anymore that people know. Because, I don’t care what people think of me anymore. I am my own worst critic.

I went two months SI free. That was a huge accomplishment. But then, last night (2004-11-04) I broke down and made two slashes on my left arm. It felt so damn good.

Hopefully I’ll learn to deal with it better in the future. Until then, I’m still here. Waiting for what life throws at me.


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