Copyright, Winterskye

It’s an interesting thing. Cutting is a small subculture at my school. I know about 6 other people who do it. My best friend and I have scars for each other. Hers is from when she first found out that I had started (she has done it for a lot longer), and I have a few from a fight we had.

At first I did it for attention, I hoped it would be found, but after a while it became my secret high. Then my mom found out and started yelling at me about it, and I almost laughed in her face. Now my parents are talking about taking me to a shrink, but they don’t seem to realize that I won’t talk and I won’t stop. I love my scars; I think they are the most beautiful things about me. At first I just used a serrated knife, because it cut easier without as much pain, then I went to a regular blade, and now I’m at razors, safety pins, push pins, and other pointed objects. I don’t cut as much anymore as I carve. I have a lovely scar that says “escape” on my arm (that’s from when I was thinking about a boyfriend I was about to break up with), and among the normal, boring, straight scars I have the words “hate” “pain” “disturbed” (my favorite band), a couple of anarchy signs and a flower (my personal one that I have drawn since 6th grade).

I first became depressed/suicidal in 7th grade, but got over it after an episode in which I tried to kill myself with a rough chip of wood in front of about 5 of my friends (one of my guy friends held me in a bear hug until I calmed down).

After that I didn’t do anything until earlier this school year when I found out my best friend was doing it. My boyfriend at the time was into fighting for money, “prizefighting”, and she ran a “pit”, place where they fight, and happened to mention that fighters find the ability to hurt oneself impressive. I started it to impress him, and also because she made a comment about me not being able to hurt myself which I took as a challenge.

It has progressed from there. Anytime I feel stressed I pull out my “tools”. It’s kind of interesting that I refer to my cutting (SI as you call it) as “escape” and my friend refers to it as “release”. It actually is both. I have never in my life been abused, I appear to have a perfect life (both biological parents, big house, lots of cars and money) but I found out toward the end of 8th grade that my father had previously had an affair, and it was the first step. I also lack self-esteem and generally see compliments as lies and cruel taunts. I have a few good relationships, but lack the ability to form new ones easily. I don’t think a shrink will help much, but since my mom appears to not want to admit that I “mutilate” (I use the word “decorate”) myself, I doubt I will even see one soon. I remember the first time I read about cutting. It was in the book “Ophelia Speaks”. At the time I thought it was disgusting and freakish. The idea that it was a person’s way to cope was inconceivable. Now I realize it is perfectly sensible. At least I’m not killing my lungs or liver, what’s so wrong with a few murdered skin cells, honestly? It’s a completely natural high, no real harmful after effects, easily hidden, unless you’re dumb like I was a couple times and wear a sleeveless top the day after you make new cuts when they’re swollen and red. My most interesting experience had to be the time I cut my upper thigh and it bled through my pants. That or the time I cut my wrist deep enough for it to actually hurt.

I will never give up my scars. I will not stop. I just felt I would share my inspirational (sarcasm) story with you. It’s as true as I could make it, but you will find out no names if I can help it. I am screwed up and ok with that fact. I’ll live; remember SI has nothing to do with suicide.


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