Uhmm. Hi, I'm Ciara, and this is obviously my 'cutting' experience. I have self-mutilated since ten years old, not because I am a total 'emo kid', want to get attention, want to commit suicide etc. It is oddly, my release for stresses in life. Some people vent theirs in a journal/diary, at friends, taking a bath, reading a book... But me? Well, I can't deny I never do those things to calm down, but 'cutting' to me would always be my first choice. It is an extreme release for me. If I ever have any problem or frustration, I often find myself doing this, and consequently, I have scars over my body due to this habit. This is the first time I've ever written/told anyone about this, and decided to share my story here, where I won't be given strange looks, laughed at or worried about. I would feel very uncomfortable if anyone that I knew very well saw my scars or cuts, and I do my very best to hide them (Mostly on my upper thighs, shoulders, stomach, back etc.) Places that can easily be hidden by jewelry or clothes.) I do not at all condone this activity or anything similar without professional's doing it or sterilized equipment, a proper place to do it, and a good head on the person's shoulders.
Firstly, some background information I s'pose. I'm Ciara, I'm fourteen (Please, do not think lowly of me or this story because of my age...) I have a small number of body-modifications right now, but the number is slowly growing. (One cartilage piercing in my left ear along with two lobe piercings, two (It used to be three, but unfortunately the third one was a real problem..) lobe piercings in my right ear, and my naval. And for my family/personal life... my father is a pill-popping, verbally abusive (He is no longer physically abusive, luckily.) alcoholic whom has been the source of many arguments that I have, and has been the reason to me for a few permanent scars on myself. And I was sexually abused when I was eight via my friend's brother. Not very interesting, but I thought I'd add those in there.
I have always been interested in body modification, but blood and raw flesh sends shivers down my spine, except for anything on myself, where it interestingly doesn't phase me.
The first time I remember ever deliberately cut myself was when I was ten. I had got into an argument with my mum earlier for some stupid thing. (Perhaps it was cleaning my room or something...) I was sitting in the bath, and remembered about how my mum told me she had accidently cut herself with razor. I was curious, obviously, being a naive ten year old, so I picked up her razor and pushed it down on my leg, an experiment, to see if I could have a funny cut like hers on my leg too. Nothing happened. I pushed a little harder, and still, nothing happened. I was getting particulary narked at this point, so I just grabbed the razor and ran it deeply across my leg. The pain was there immediately, but it didn't bother me, for some reason... I liked it... It was like a release of the anger I held for my mum earlier, like I had just exploded bottled up emotions. And I was immediately fascinated with the cut I had just made. I had made that cut! It was the first time I had ever really felt in control with my body, with my life. But it was a cut, right? I had to hide it, and unfortunately my mum had been increasingly suspicious about the long shorts/jeans I had been wearing, but she never asked me to check my legs for anything I could've been hiding.
I never really cut much from then on, I had a few minor cuts here and there every once in a while that could be easily hidden, but then it went downhill when I was thirteen. My father was becoming increasingly angry with me about seemingly nothing, the arguments got worse and worse, each day he would have something to criticize about me, whether it be my looks, weight (I am pretty average, I am not overweight, nor underweight, but unfortunately I stopped eating on and off for a while, and lost weight.), or something that just seemed to annoy him about me. One night when it got particulary bad, I threw myself into the bathroom, grabbed a razor and slashed my wrists and watched them bleed. The pain was excrutiating, but it was amazing, that feeling at aged ten was still here, the feeling of control. And again, the cuts were amazing to me. They were red, sore and hurt whenever I moved my wrist, but there were mine. I could choose what to do to them, no one else. No one was to criticize my art work. I had to wear tons of bracelets to cover my wrist for a few weeks afterwards because it was summer, but I didn't care. I was so proud I made them. Unfortunately, my mum must've seen them through my bracelets and questioned them. I just mumbled something about trying to shave my arms and accidently cutting them. She sort of shrugged it off, saying they were pretty nasty cuts and I should be more careful.
The little cuts on my wrists are still there today, but they have faded majorly, luckily, but are still visible when I have a shower or anything that wets them, it seems to highlight them a bit. My little straight pointless cuts started to turn into shapes, stars, hearts, names, faces, circles... They've all been in my flesh.
My father had started to settle down after the summer, he soon stopped picking on me for every flaw I had. But lately, problems at school have been the major source of my cutting. I am failing one class, my best friend Jordan found out about my sexual abuse and questions me about it often, trying to fix the problems with it. My father each day grinds into me about me being such a failure to him. But instead of arguing, as usual, I went to the bathroom, to cut, again. My upper thigh and foot were the canvas to my artwork that day. I etched a heart in with my razor blade, and then tried scratching to fill in the heart with pink, then I added in stars, lines and circles to border it. On my ankle, I carved a star. The blood flowed, as did my problems. I couldn't really remember doing it, until I sat down and my jeans rubbed against the raw, red skin, making me flinch with pain, but with a quick re-adjustment of my jeans, the pain was gone.
I still cut today, and cut more often than I ever have. I know it's incredibly stupid to do, and there are so many other options of calming down to do, but this one, this one beats them all. It's never been a problem to me, the scars bring me smiles as I trace over them with my fingers, they're like my little reminders of what has happened in my life. Like my body is one big storybook, and those are the words in bold print.
I have told just one of my friends about this problem, about my father, about my abuse, about the past in my life, and she has been the most supportive person about it, but insists I need a counselor to work through this 'destructive habit' as she calls it, but never has pushed me to do so, but each day asks me about what I've done to myself, and encourages me to stop. Perhaps, one day I will. But it's my way of releasing, it's better than keeping it bottled up. It makes me feel good. And in the end, that's all that I want myself to feel. Happy.
Thanks for reading my story. :]
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 22 Nov. 2006