It all started in seventh grade. I was not the nicest of people, and I got what I deserved. I would treat people like they were lower then me, and make people feel like total crap. Then one day, this boy named Mark stood up to me. He put me in my place by making fun of the way I look. I used to have very crooked teeth, and Mark started talking about me and about how much I looked like a beaver. Every time I would see him, he would say something to make me upset.
Soon after, he got more people to tease me, including people I thought were my friends. I became very sad and depressed. I dressed in black and said nothing the whole rest of that grade. I felt very desolate and alone. I often had thoughts of suicide, and I began to take many pills and cut myself. After a while, the pills had an effect on me, and I started to be every sick when I took them, so I stopped. Yet, I did not stop cutting myself. Sometimes it was on the wrist, sometimes on my ankle, and sometimes it was where ever I saw first. I got bored with slicing in straight, vertical lines, so I started to experiment with designs. Starts, pentagrams, anything -I did them all.
On the last day of seventh grade, the shit hit the fan. I was sitting in Language Arts class, doing nothing as usual, when my so-called friends came up to me and started drawing red lines on their wrists and saying things like "Oh look, I'm Rachel and I cut myself for attention'. That pushed me right over the edge. I never cut myself for attention, nor do I want to start. I went home after that day and sat down on my bed. No one was home at the time, so I sat alone in the dark, thinking about how I would do it. Yet, every time I would pick up the knife, I could not get enough courage to do it. That's when I decided that I did not want to die, I just needed to relieve stress and let out emotions that were built up inside of me.
After that night, I ended up with four permanent stars on my inner thighs. The odd thing that occurred to me was that I liked it. From then on, I wanted to have more and more scars; all which had a meaning. So I would cut stars and ankhs into my thighs and my wrists. Unfortunately enough for me, they all faded within the past year.
Eighth grade was my 'secret, but open' year. Meaning, I did it and told no one, but everyone knew. I made it so obvious unintentionally. I would wear long sleeves and pants, always afraid someone would see. Then along came my first real boyfriend. We had been messing around [nothing too serious] and he asked me about them. I told him is was nothing and he believed me. Well, at the end of the year, my cover was blown oddly enough, and I was sent to the school councilor, when my mother was contacted. My mom threatened to send me to an Institution, but that never happened. All during that summer, I still did it, and it was my true calling.
When I got to high school, I found out that I wasn't the only one that was 'sick' in the world. Most of the friends that I have made are all the same as me. Some do it because it relieves stress; others do it because they think that scars are beautiful [as do I]. I didn't feel so alone, and when people would ask me about the faint lines on my wrist, I would say nothing, but when I was with my friends who were like me, we would share stories about how we got our scars. People never asked us, because no one was as immature as they were in Middle School. Unless you truly had intentions to kill yourself [which not one of us did], no one cared.
Just today, my friend told me that she was getting a tattoo in two days. She gave me the URL address to this website, and told me to look for one of the tattoos. As I was browsing, I saw the link title 'scarification' and I clicked on it. I never knew that there were actually people who would scar you professionally, until viewing this website. I am very interested in having the done once I turn 18. I have also considered getting a tattoo and having my lip pierced. Yet, for now I want to see where the whole scarification leads. Pain doesn't scare me; it hasn't since I started to cut. Scars are beauty in my world, and no one can change that thought pattern that continuously runs through out my mind, body, and soul. [I would also like the stress the fact that I was very safe when I did all my cutting. I cleaned ever razor, washed my hands, and sterilized everything, including my skin].
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 02 Dec. 2004