Succumbing to one's self.
I have to tell a story. But first, I'm not looking for sympathy, I just want to share my story so that I stop getting the comments and remarks. I want to open to you the world of self injury and self mutilation.
I myself am a cutter, and have been off and on for the past 5 years. If you saw me on the street you wouldn't think I am, I wear a plastic smile, well at least I did. Currently I am recovering, but I'll talk about that later.
I'd read a lot about self injury as a kid, it fascinated me so much how someone could hurt themselves physically and relieve the mental pain for a short while. I never thought I would become one of these people.
I was around eleven years old when I first hurt myself intentionally. My father had gone off on a business trip. Little did my family and I know, he'd gone on a little mini vacation with his secretary. It rocked my sheltered life to pieces. I had never felt so much pain in my life. So, while my mother lay crying and my sister isolated herself and my brother beat up the fence with a baseball bat, I went to my room. I lit a candle and burned the F-word into my calf. I'm not exactly sure why I did it and whether or not it made me feel better, but I know it was the start of my addiction.
Yes, I am an addict. I'm addicted to what is known as endorphins. They are released into the blood stream when there is physical trauma and they make you feel happier. So to someone who is depressed or heavily sad, this is like taking medication. I needed it to live each day, just like we need food, air and water to survive. I physically could not survive without harming myself to such a degree, it was controversy over whether or not my next outbreak would kill me.
When I was thirteen I dated the most wonderful guy, but after I turned fourteen he started being verbally and sometimes he would push me. But after a while, and since he was older and was into drugs and alcohol, he would hit harder and demand that I had sex with him. I knew that it was wrong and that I needed to end it, but I also felt so much for him. One day in December, I remember sneaking out to see him and by the time I got to his house he was already drunk and probably high. I told him it had to be over, that I couldn't stand worrying about him and lying to my parents. He called me names and as I started to leave he grabbed me by the hair and pulled off his belt. He hit me several times on my back and legs, once on my face. Then he dropped me to the floor and held me in his arms while I sobbed and tried to breathe. When I tried to stand he pulled me into his lap and started caressing my hair and telling me he loved me, that he couldn't live without me. The next day the bruises on my back and legs were so bad I decided to skip school.
I never learned to talk about the abuse. I felt as though if I ignored it, it would go away, but of course it never did. A little over a week after that incident I hadn't seen my boyfriend in forever, so I went to go see him. I did still care, despite how he treated me. I got to the house and cops were everywhere. There was an ambulance and a gurney covered in a white sheet. I thought it was his grandmother, but no she was standing right there crying. When I asked his mother who died she just pushed me inside towards his room. I thought to myself "No, this can't be happening. He's alive. He's alive.."
Part of me died along with him that day. After his death I cut really bad everyday for two weeks then stopped. I realized no matter how much pain I inflicted on myself, I would never bring him back or silence my own pain.
For months afterwards I was doing so well. I hadn't cut, and I was in therapy and actually happy, despite missing him. But then the following year I was sent on a 5150 to Herrick by my school for my scars. Although I was discharged after six hours, I was pissed, as was my parents.
In 2005 I went to a party with some friends and got pretty wasted on alcohol and a Soma. Unfortunately I cut my arm with a cleaver and ended up getting twenty-three stitches and spending a week in residential.
But as soon as I got out I started cutting again. People at school were driving me down. Teasing me about the party and taunting me and making jokes. I just couldn't handle it anymore. Thats when my mother sent me to Herrick a second time. I was 5150'd but I stayed there for eleven days, instead of just three.
Despite how awful I think it was, it was really helpful. It's helped me and my parents to become a lot closer than we were. I can actually talk about my problems with them, and thats important.
As for now, I still cut occasionally but not as frequent or as severe as I used to. I believe cutting has helped me through a lot, but now I need help getting through cutting.
Now Please, the next time you see someone with scars don't get in there face about it. I've had bad experiences with teachers and especially friends taking the news that I'm a cutter. But please, please, please, never ask a cutter about their scars. It's like asking someone about their sexual history, it's personal.
submitted by: pierced_star
on: 12 Dec. 2005