I dunno why I'm writing this. I guess we all kind of feel a little stupid telling ourselves that self-medication is a good thing. We all feel just a little guilty when we spill our hearts out. I think though that I need to get this out once and for all. Just to get it off my mind for tonight, at least for a few hours of peace.
I started cutting when I was 12 or 13, I don't really remember how old I was, I just remember what I used. A safety pin. I laugh at that now. I've found so many sharper things. But back to the point. What got me to first cut was the fad in school. Everyone, even the jocks and popular girls everyone hates to love were doing it. Carve the initials of someone you like into your skin. No one got caught except me. A friend thought I was losing my mind because I picked a bad, out there spot that she saw. The counselor never saw it, and I wasn't found out till last year.
Anyway, I used a safety pin because it was thin and sharp (I didn't know you could take the blades out of the razor back then.) I remember it was at night and that it hurt like hell. A part of me hated seeing the blood dripping from the thin little lines. A part of me wanted to cut and cut and bleed and scream and die. A part of me still wants to. I lost myself in that cut, no matter how much pleasure and disgust it gave me. I changed that night.
At first, I let the cut heal, and I didn't think about cutting again for a very long time. Not until 8th grade, when we moved to a small town and I didn't know anyone. I hate change, I suck at making new friends and being somewhere different. So with the stress of fitting in (I've never fit in and I hate to even try) I just gave up a second time.
I only remember this second time because I still have this scar, and this was the first time I used a razor blade. It is one of my favorite scars. Disgusting and beautiful. This cut was also made at night, in the dark and comfort of my bedroom. A razor blade at my side, it kissing my flesh. Blood dripping to the floor. It's like the most wonderful pleasure and a terrible beating all at once.
No one saw this cut because I was new and an introvert, so no one questioned me as to why I wore long shirts (the cut was about 5 inches on my left wrist, deep but not deep enough to cut tendons.)
As time went on, the cutting habit grew worse (or better, however you want to look at it.) I cut at least once a week from little petty things to great big major happenings in my life. My mother discovered she was a lesbian, and I still have a nice long cut on my inner right thigh from that news. My dad also came out of the closet and I have a beautiful cut on my shoulder from that news as well. I have nothing against my parents, it's just a lot to take for a kid to know your parents are changing and your life is turing upside down.
I cut and I cut, I had to stop though during because I had a few friends (they never knew anything) and I couldn't easily wear long shirts in 90 degree weather. But after all this crap with my parents and them being gay and lesbian they decided to work things out and we moved back to the town we had come from in the first place. I lost my best friend to manic-depression (she died just last year) and I had to leave behind the one guy I truly knew I loved.
After moving back, by my freshman year I was wearing long shirts every day. I had so many scratches from the cats and scars from running in the woods and I was running out of excuses. I hated being so far away from people but I couldn't help it. I wasn't too much into drugs then but I loved drinking and getting so drunk I would pass out. I hated the next day though, feeling guilty and I cut harder and more violently. The cuts were jagged from pieces of glass and serrated knives. I hated myself, and attempted suicide twice. I threw up the pills the first time and I didn't bleed enough the second time. I was falling farther into a hole no one could see but me.
After all this going on with me and my own problems, I remember one night that a friend and I went out to crash a party. I drank and smoked pot (bad combination for me) and ended up in the back of a car with some guy I still don't know who he was. Technically it wasn't rape because I was in it as much as he was. The next day, I was sore and guilty and I cut so deep on my bicep, I tore some of the muscle. Gladly, I know how to stich a wound, so it healed but didn't leave too nice of a scar.
After my freshmen year, I was getting worse and worse, missing my old boyfriend and knowing that he had found someone else. I nearly committed suicide the night he told me that he had found a new girlfriend. I told him I was happy for him but I locked myself in the bathroom and stared at the knife for an hour crying and talking to myself. I cut my hand on the palm pretty badly and still can't move my pinky and middle finger very well. But the scar blends in with the lines so you can't really see it.
By the start of my sophomore year, just before my mom and I moved back to the town where the boy I loved lived, I broke down at my friends house. She had told me that she had cut shallowly for the past few months because things had been going on in her family. I showed her my scars, she had never seen them before this. I hate myself for showing her. This had been my secret for years and now she knew. But she took the secret to her grave. She was the friend that committed suicide this past year. I feel as if it was my fault but then again I'm very glad she went because she suffered so much from her step father and from her abusive boyfriend. I miss her terribly but I know I'll see her soon enough.
As for sophomore year, we moved around October and I'm back here where I've needed to be. I have a very close boyfriend that I love dearly. But when we moved, my dad found a few suicide notes that I kept (for reason I do not know why.) I've seen three counselors in the past 4 months and my drinking isn't as bad. The last time I drank was in July. But my cutting is just as bad. I don't see any counselors any more because I'm a fabulous liar. And my boyfriend has no idea what I do to myself still.
I can't help what I do. I have lovely scratches beneath my breasts that are just now healing up. I have problems I'm sure. I don't think so, but most people would. I think that cutting helps me release my anger and fear and pain and happiness. I'm just a hollow thing when I cut. I like being hollow. I hate feeling all different emotions. Sometimes I want to die, sometimes I dream of someone raping and cutting me and stabbing me to death. Sometimes I dream of drowning myself or hanging myself or slitting my throat. Dreams don't come true and I'll take the pain over the pleasure any day. I wish that people could understand better as to why people HAVE to cut and bleed and feel pain. I wish that we could all get that little rush when you see the blood dripping or sliding down your arm and hitting the floor. And tasting it on your tongue.
Don't ask my to change. I've never been able to help it and you can't help either. I hope that no one will ever find out my secret again. My own thoughts are my own, and no on needs to know how I feel or how badly I want to die. I just need a little blood now and then. I just need a little pain. You can understand that can't you? A little escape. I hope you can.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 16 Sept. 2006