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kill me now or forever hold my piece

As I sit here in September 2006, age 17. I've been cutting myself for approximately two years now. Not because I think I'm fat, or because I want people to have sympathy for me, but because of a little thing called depression. The doctor just says it's a stage I'm going through, but for me, it's something I strive to overcome.

Lets rewind, age 15, tenth grade, unlike everyone else I was very unsettled. I became moody, withdrawn and stayed away from everyone. I locked myself in my room, I screamed, I slammed doors, I ignored people, I told my parents I hated them when I really didn't, and I swore at people a little too much, I still did well in School but I was incredibly emotional. Dealing with the emotions in me and starting school with all those HUGE people in the higher years, all squishing me and pushing me out of the way to get to their class took its toll on me.

One time I thought it would be a good idea to take my Moms car keys and go to the corner store. Well being 16 I didn't have a lot of driving experience, and crashed into the side of speedy stop. I quickly got home. My parents found out and quickly started yelling at me, throwing stuff at me, telling me I'm worthless. After breaking my window I got a piece of glass and I cut my wrist with it, convinced it would cut open my vein and I would die like I wanted so badly to do. The resulting burny scratch wasn't the suicide I had planned, but it was a release I was looking for and had unwittingly stumbled across. 65 times I cut myself that night. But I still wanted more, all I wanted to do is go to sleep and not wake up. So, I took about 11 Tylenols. The room got shaky and quickly I fell into a deep sleep. The next morning I woke up. What happened to me dieing?? It didn't work.

From that moment on, whenever I became too much of a bitch, I cut myself using whatever I found that was sharp. At that point I didn't think about or realize the consequences of a dirty object piercing my skin; I just wanted to feel better. I used things from razors, safety pins, paperclips, knives, it even came to the point that I used the sharp part of the paper towel dispenser at school.

Fast forward to 2005 I think, and I was 16. I had made a few good friends, one 'best' friend but I was still incredibly down. I was sitting in my room one night, crying uncontrollably (heartbreakingly, I've learned how to cry quietly and motionlessly so that even people in the same bed as me don't realize I'm crying) and I hated myself. I was fat, I hadn't grown into my looks and I was struggling with everything. Put quite simply, I wanted to die. I took apart a brand new shaver and cut really far into my leg. I quickly called my then boyfriend and I was sobbing down the phone, not realizing how loud I was being and my mom came in. She was over at my bed so fast once she saw my leg that I'm convinced she flew. She hugged my so tight I thought I was going to be smothered by her chest. She kept asking me why I'd done it and I told her that I simply didn't know. To this day I still don't know. My friend called my house and told my dad to go check on me. He told her that my mum was with me but I'm pretty sure I scared the living daylights out of her. I know I had scared myself witless.

After that incident, my mom took me to the doctors where he basically told me to go for counseling. I couldn't. If I couldn't speak to my own mother how on earth did she expect me to speak to a complete stranger. Even though it wasn't a serious suicide attempt (well, I was serious, I was in the depths of hell in my mind and wanted to die, but it wasn't like I'd OD'd on pills, or tried to hang myself) I think more should have been done. The doctor basically said I was 15; I wasn't depressed (because teenagers don't get depressed of course!) so he was putting me on pills and I had to go to speak to a professional about the cutting.

2 years on, I've struggled with what I now realize is depression, probably not severe, but really pretty serious in my mind. I've gotten to the point where I walked about on auto-pilot, never speaking to people, never smiling, barely eating. But at the same time, I put on an act for people, pretending I was ok. I've learned through all of this that the hardest and most painful smile is the fake one you plaster on for people when all you want to do is curl up and sleep until everything feels better.

At this point, last winter was a pretty low period for me. I started my senior year. The dark nights and dark mornings really affected me, and my lack of friends just solidified that. I was incredibly depressed and managed to escape through my journal.

A few months ago, I went to the doctors to get help for how I was feeling and my cutting. I have far too many deep scars on my legs and arms and I don't want to do it anymore, but cutting and self-injury is addictive. I know this now. I had broken my habit for a few months, but recently, I've been very stressed and it has all come crashing back. Sometimes I feel so guilty and panicky that it feels like all the breath is being crushed from my lungs and I can't get a decent deep breath. I hate feeling this way and it needs to stop.

As I sit here, I know I have a box of piercing needles that I now use to cut myself with stashed away in my closet. I also know I have razor blades in the same box, just sitting there, waiting until I feel the urge to use them. I haven't cut for about 3 weeks now and I'm really proud of myself. 3 weeks isn't much, I've a long way to go but it's a start.

In my mind, a self injurer is like an alcoholic. Alcoholics are never 'cured'; they're just "9 months dry" for example. Some people can be 20 years dry, but they're always going to be alcoholics. SI is an addiction the same as alcohol and drugs. I'll never be entirely rid of the need to cut, but I hope in future, I don't need to depend on it just to get through the next day.

Details

submitted by: Anonymous
on: 30 Sept. 2006
in Scarification

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