I have always had a fascination with hurting myself. I was always the kid who picked at scabs, bit my nails until they bled, punched myself, I was bulimic at one point, a drug addict at another I basically did everything in my power to destroy myself.
The first time I cut myself, I used scissors and I was 12. I don't know why I chose to do it, but I was fascinated with the pain. I had been diagnosed with depression when I was 8 years old and the idea to cut myself just came to me one day. Nobody ever found out.
After that, I didn't cut for two years until I was 14. I had an extremely bad month, and I cut myself more then 50 times on my thigh; all deep enough to need stitches. I had trouble walking for the first week, but they healed, and even to this day I have terrible scars all up and down my left leg. They really are constant reminders.
I distinctly remember confiding in my best friend Jenn. I took her into a bathroom stall and showed her because I was so upset. She immediately started crying. She told her parents everything, and from that point on, I'd talk to them about it, and they were pretty cool about it. Her mother is Bipolar, and her dad has a thyroid problem, so they were very understanding about the whole scenario.
From there, I started cutting daily. I advanced on to using razors that I would buy, those heavy duty ones used to cut boxes open, and ended up getting "found out" by my school's Vice Principal. He went over the whole "use elastics instead; try ice; try red nail polish; etc". I didn't have the ambition to stop, so I kept going, and he respected my decision.
Eventually, I went to counseling. The lady I had was amazing and for the first time in over a year, I stopped cutting for 2 months. It was a good summer.
I went back into school in the fall, and started having serious problems. Suicide was always on my mind, and I started cutting again. I purchased new razors as I had thrown my old ones out (thinking I had "recovered"), and started cutting daily. By mid may, 2005, I had a mental breakdown and was put into the hospital. I spent a few days there, with people judging me because I scar, pierce and tattoo my body. I had to keep telling them "cutting isn't the same as getting a professional piercing or tattoo" but they were set in their minds; they saw it all as self-destruction. They told my parents everything.
My father especially was disgusted with me. My mother now uses it to say "well why don't you go cut yourself?!" every time we get into a fight. They were just so disappointed in me... if anything their behavior made me want to do it more, because I deserved to be punished.
I was diagnosed as bipolar with psychotic features. I kept cutting but now I was in the "system" and had to speak with workers from the hospital weekly. By the time I turned 16, I was legally able to get stitches, and my cutting was bad enough that I needed them a couple times a week. The crisis nurses all knew me by name, and when they saw me (as it is mandatory in Ontario), they'd ask if I wanted to kill myself, when I said no, they left it at that. My counselor had told them not to request I stay over night because the psychiatric ward was so stressful on me, and even though I was cutting, I was okay (or I would have said something).
I was addicted to the amazing adrenaline rush I'd get after every single cut. I loved seeing how much I could bleed and how deep I could go. I began getting more daring, more adventurous with my cuts and started trying to hit veins. My goal was to do as much damage as I could. I wanted to see if I could bleed enough to fill a cup.
I cut myself up until a couple weeks ago. My ankles, forearms, upper arms, stomach, thighs, hands, and knees are covered with big, red, scars. I had over 50 visits to the hospital in a couple months, and it was a wake-up call when I was confronted by a group of close friends, teachers and family members. They were worried about me, and I pretty much got told they didn't think I'd live long enough to graduate at the rate I was going.
I don't know for sure if I will ever quit completely, but I do know that whatever I decide- I am okay with. Cutting is something I did to survive, and it worked. I wouldn't take back a single cut I made and for me, it signifies the battles I have lived and won.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 05 July 2006