Copyright, Yumiko

I just started cutting like, in April. And now it’s June. I started off using finger nail clippers. And then I started using more painful things. I’ve pretty much used everything in the house. Knives, razor blades, safety pins. Anything. And when I can’t get to anything, I usually just bite myself, or scratch myself until I tear the skin. I stopped doing it on my arm and now I do them on my thigh. It helps me forget about the bad things that have happened. I just watch the blood come up to the surface. I’ve tried to stop, but I look at all my scars, and I still have that memory. But under each cut lies a story, a buried story.

Update: I started cutting when I was thirteen. I’m now fifteen. I stopped for a while, because I turned to getting high instead of cutting. But now I’ve started up again. I don’t know why I cut. I feel weak and strong at the same time when I do it. I have major self worth issues. I can never get a good sleep. My days consist of watching tv, overeating, listening to music (coping with school on school days). My nights usually consist of crying, cutting, crying more, and trying to convince myself and others I’m OK.


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