My story

Copyright, Skye

I’ve been injuring myself since I was six years old. I used to bite myself and slam myself into walls, but it never really occurred to me that I was doing anything wrong. My father was really abusive and used to hit me with things like extension cords and belt buckles. I was constantly sad and antisocial. But then I found out that if I hurt myself, I felt better. I would go to school for years with bruises that I had inflicted upon myself and say that my little brother ‘bit me when we were wrestling’ or something like that. People would look at me funny, but walk off anyway. I had attempted suicide but nobody cared. It wasn’t until I moved in with my mother and found out that my father had molested my sister did I really depend on the SI. I would have my forearm covered in circular shaped bruises, and it scared the hell out of my mom. So she threatened to throw me in the hospital if I didn’t quit. I went around like a dead person for three years after that and nobody really noticed me. It was like I was a ghost. Everyone loved my sister and hated me. So one night in February, I was watching a movie when I got a strange urge to hurt myself. It felt like my insides were screaming for me to inflict pain upon myself. So I did it a different way this time. I broke the razor out of my pencil sharpener, and slid it across my calf. I smiled when I saw the blood. It was a beautiful crimson against my pale skin. Than I did it again… and again… and again… until my leg was a bloody mess. So I just bandaged it up so it wouldn’t bleed through my pants and went back to watch the movie. I did this for three months until I was caught with a razor at school and everyone found out about my secret. I wanted to die at that particular moment. But instead I was Baker-acted into a hospital where for a week I was treated like if they turned their back to me for two seconds that I would commit suicide. Now, It’s been two weeks since I’ve been released and I’m trying to quit.


Copyright, Skye

My life hasn’t been too traumatic. I guess I always made it seem a lot worse than it was. I have two parents, who both work. I guess I’m middle class. I could usually get what I wanted, and until the time I was in 8th grade, I didn’t have many problems. Once I got in eighth grade thought, things started changing. I felt out of place and really insecure. I could suddenly only see my flaws. I was somewhat overweight. I had glasses. I felt ugly. Around that time, I started falling for this guy, I’ll call him Joey. I became obsessed with trying to make him like me. And when that failed, I would sit up at night and just cry trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I don’t know exactly why I did it, but one night I just got really fed up with everything. I took a paper clip and started scratching at the skin on my ankle. it started to bleed and I just felt so much better. So much more in control. I ended up carving his name. Something foolish I regretted later. I didn’t do anything like that for a while. I’d pick at my skin, scratch myself with my fingernails. But nothing to that extreme. High school came along and things spiralled out of control. I was messing around with different guys because it was giving me the attention I desperately needed, but in the end I just ended up hating myself for it. That’s when I turned to drugs and alcohol. When I was high or drunk, I didn’t feel any pain. But when I was sober I hated myself. When there were no drugs or alcohol around, I was so depressed it was ridiculous. That’s when I started cutting again. The first time I cut with a razor was to rid myself of the ugly scar on my ankle that still said his name. It was hard to notice, but I noticed it. I could see it. It was another flaw. I took the razor and made seven clean lines crossing his name out. I now have those scars, but his name is no longer visible. After that I felt better. And I started cutting more. I usually cut my legs. I could always wear jeans to cover the cuts. No one ever knew what was going on. I eventually told my best friend, who confessed to me that she cut to. We showed each other the scars and cried, vowing never to cut again. That didn’t last too long. Only a few weeks later I had an emotional breakdown. I was with a group of friends, and there was a lot of drama going on. And I started scratching my wrists with my nails. Someone saw what I was doing and asked about it but I blew it off saying it was itchy. A stupid lie. We were outside in the middle of the woods and I had nothing to cut with. I was freaking out until I found a piece of broken glass. I didn’t even care that I could probably get a really bad infection, I dug the (somewhat) sharp edge into my arm and dragged it down about two inches. I felt better. I grabbed a tissue out of my pocket to soak up the blood and pulled my sleeve down over it. Later, Mark grabbed my arm and I screamed. He asked what was wrong and I said nothing. He didn’t believe me. He ended up grabbing my sleeve and pushing it up. He saw the cut. He knew I did it. And he didn’t say a word. I told my parents I fell and scraped it on a rock. They believed it. Soon I started cutting more and more. Except now I cut on my arms. And my stomach. It just made me feel like for once I was in control of something in my life. I don’t cut as much as I used to. I still get overwhelming urges though. And sometimes I do. I have a whole box of different things I’ve used to cut. Safety pins, needles, about six different razors. A few people know I cut. My parents still haven’t caught on, even after I wrote a note to a friend they found talking about it. I never mentioned the word cut. But if they had half a brain they could have figured it out. I think they are in denial. Luckily I have two cats and can blame it on them. Part of me wants help. Part of me just doesn’t care. At least I finally know that I’m not the only one with this problem. That makes it a little more bearable.


Copyright, Skye

The cuts get deeper
The blood flows thicker
One wrong move and it’s over
Too afraid to cut my wrists
I begin low on my body
Working my way up
My body becomes covered
In scars that I hide
The days go by
And it becomes more frequent
I’m past my legs
Onto my stomach
Little marks that bleed
The cat did it
I don’t know where that came from
Excuses everyone believes
Because they are blind to the truth
I’m slowly killing myself
Causing this physical pain
To end the emotional hurt
My arms are next
But not the wrists
They are off limits
Until its time to go
Knives, razors, pins
They become my life
I use whatever I can
Whenever I can
In my bedroom
In the backseat of the car
It gets worse and worse
I’m waiting for the day
Something sets me off
It will happen son
I’ll take that razor
And drag it across my wrist
Just the right amount of pressure
To watch the blood flow freely
It won’t stop then
Just keep pouring out
Dripping down my arms
Onto the floor
I’ll drift off into a deep sleep
To never awaken
No one will save me
I’ve lost everyone who cares
I have nothing I d regret leaving behind
I have nothing to stop me
One day… it’ll happen
My one friend
My razor
Will take my pathetic life


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