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why I cut myself

Hello. My name is Kyo. I have a couple of reasons why I cut myself, but starting out with how this idea of self-harm came to be would be a good start.

I had a pretty lonely childhood, adolescent, and...I guess...young adult life. I was made the "black sheep" in middle school, and lost all hope in friendship by the time I was a sophomore in high school. I was all alone from sophomore year up until the middle of senior year. My loneliness was absolute. Absolutely no one in class or homeroom would talk to me. Sometimes, I would go through the whole school day without opening my mouth once. I coped with my loneliness by playing the piano during lunch hours instead of eating in the cafeteria. I brought the librarians to the brink of their patience by sneaking food into the school library. I knew there was something wrong with me. No one could ever stick with me and be my friend for more than a year. That was the typical trend. I told myself that I had to accept the fact that I could not have any friends. The last half of my senior year, I hung out with a group of sophomores who invited me to sit with them. Although I knew that they
invited me out of pity, it was an act of kindness that I accepted.

I entered freshman year in college hating myself. I hated myself since I was 12 years old. I don't know why. I just hate myself. Even now, I hate myself and I wish I was someone else. I spent the whole year pretending to be someone else to fit in with everyone else, and I got four friends who like my fake personality. I struggled trying to find my own personality, but I couldn't help stopping my fake act. It was making everyone happy to see that kind of personality from me. I had a rough freshman year because of complications with my dorm-mate.

Sophomore year came, and I started to study more than I did freshman year. Grades and school started to become the number one most important thing in my mind – even above health. I started to be more myself rather than someone else. My four friends started to hate me when I couldn't afford the extra money to buy the week's groceries. You see, in high school I thought that I would never have friends my whole life. Freshman year of college, I thought that I was wrong, and that these four friends are my first real friends. Sophomore year, I was sad to know that my four friends hated me because of my lack of money. They didn't just hate me. They disrespected my stuff. They talked about me behind my back. They spread lies and rumors. They tried to take away my rights in the apartment. For someone who never had any real, close friends, this scenario really destroyed the trust I had for other people. The problem with roommates wasn't the only problem. I think I started to develop a
short-temper. I think I started to hate myself more than I did before. All these "I think" problems – personality problems you think are developing, but there is no concrete way of knowing that they are there – were coming up.

It was in the beginning of July that I was sitting in front of my laptop in my apartment that I attempted cutting the first time. My roommates had given me another problem. They had already served me a plateful of problems during the school year. They seem to think that serving a second helping of those problems would be helpful as well. It was summer, and I was here in my apartment to do an internship in a lab that summer. I should be happy – summer, and an internship. What's there to be sad about? I was frustrated about the "I think" problems. I wasn't sure if I really developed a shorter temper. My parents said I changed. Did I really change? It felt like 100 problems were weighing down on my shoulders. Not to mention that my roommates had given me another problem - it was like the straw that broke the camel's back. I had already developed a problem with my parents as well.

I was sitting in my chair, telling myself that all of this wasn't happening – that this was all a dream. I remember thinking, "How could one person carry so many problems on their shoulders? It's impossible. These problems could make me go as far as cutting myself."

You see, I wasn't sure if these problems really existed. Not my parents or roommates problem, but the "I think" problems – the personality problems I think developed, but I'm not sure if they are really there. If I brought myself to cutting myself, that would mean that they existed.

I first took a silver knife, and I remember it took so much courage to just bring the knife to the surface of my arm. I couldn't even motion my hand to make a cut. I told myself to take small steps. I put back the silver knife and brought out a plastic knife. At first, I didn't apply so much pressure, but then I started to gradually apply more and more. When I realized that the knife wasn't even making a scratch, I applied as much pressure as I could to my arm, and finally stopped when I could see a bit of skin layer cut off, but not too much. It didn't bleed to my disappointment. It stung a bit after I cut it with the plastic knife though. The same night, whenever I moved my arm it stung a little bit, but not too much. The following morning, I could see a small red scratch mark. The mark wasn't as long as I hoped it would be. It was probably only half a centimeter or so. I wanted to make a longer mark next time.

I went home two weeks before school started. I remember I was mad at my parents enough to feel suicidal. When my family left to eat out, I stayed at home alone. Previously, in July, I had found this BME site and read the stories about other cutters. I was hoping that I could get tips on cutting from them. I also had done research on how to cut easier back in July. I read that warming your skin with warm water would help cutting easier. I was suicidal the same time I was cutting back in July, so I found a document listing different ways to commit suicide. It was only a few weeks ago I found that this document was a remnant of the A.S.H. site. The document told me in which direction to cut my forearms to commit suicide. It said that the chances this method would yield a successful suicide was low. I wasn't planning on just cutting my forearms. I was also planning on starving at the same time. I also have access to chemicals in the lab I intern in, so I was thinking of mixing di fferent methods together. I have seen a method for chloroform, but all they said was that it was difficult to get a hold on chloroform. I do have access to chloroform. I read one about cyanide though, so I keep that in mind every time I think of suicide. Soon my reason for cutting went from proving to myself that these personality problems existed to the mere hope that by practicing cutting enough, I could one day commit suicide without being afraid to cut deep. I was using cutting as a way to practice for a real suicide (which hasn't happened yet).

I needed more tips on cutting though. I didn't have a razor with me, and the knives are not sharp enough. Dull knives can do permanent muscle damage. The only time I want to do permanent muscle damage is the day I choose to die, not to live with dysfunctional arms and be hospitalized. I posted a forum thread in a site to ask for more tips on cutting. A lot of people told me to not cut myself, but one person said to "use scissors". I don't think they were serious because it sounded sarcastic, but I took the idea seriously. Another person said, "you're not cutting hard enough". I took that into consideration as well.

I was still mad at my parents. I had already starved for 5 hours. I went into the shower and washed the scissors with warm water and soap. I washed my left arm twice with soap and water. I didn't have alcohol or any of those things used to sterilize my tools or arms with at home. I never possessed stuff like that, so I just had soap and water to rely on. I cut with the scissors with as much pressure as I let myself put. To my disappointment, the marks didn't bleed at all. The scissors weren't that great with precision either. I still have a faint mark that has five lines all coming from the same point. It's because the scissors weren't very precise with making repeating cuts down the same line. I've never used razors, but with scissors, you have to lash your arms down the same path a lot of times to get any cuts done. I went back to bed after that.

After 28 hours of starving, my dad persuaded me to eat again. I ate dinner. The next day I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The following day, I was mad again and I skipped dinner. For the second time in those two weeks, I starved myself again. This time it reached to 31 hours.

I took a shower and tried to cut myself again. I wanted to make it bleed. I wanted to feel light-headed so I could pass out. I made my skin as soft as possible with the warm water. I made sure that my precision was very accurate this time. I could see the blue vein down my left arm. I didn't want to die yet, so I made my mark next to the blue vein. I started counting how many times I needed to lash down the same path...1...2...3... After 30 times, it was hard to see if I had depth in my cut at all. It was red from the blood under my skin rushing to the mark site, but it didn't bleed. I kept thinking what that person said in the forum "you aren't cutting hard enough", so I kept pressing harder and harder. I continued lashing a few minutes after I counted 30 until I felt so tired of trying I ended up hating myself for not even be able to doing something a mere teenager can achieve. It didn't bleed. I washed my scissors and my arms anyways. My left arm was sore from the amount of pressu re I put on it. The next day I saw my mark and it showed raw skin. The mark didn't look like a scratch. It looked like my skin opened up. If I went deeper, it would have penetrated the raw skin and caused more damage than a razor would. The opening was pretty wide, which means razors really are more precise and sharper than scissors. When I touch it, it hurts a lot. I took a shower, and my arm stings when the water hits the mark. I was happy because I was finally able to get a mark that was more visible than the scratches I was used to getting. Even though it wasn't bleeding, it still formed a scab. The mark hurt whenever someone grabbed my left forearm. It's the beginning of October now. I can still see the one mark from a silver knife back in July/August, and the two marks from scissors in September. I don't know if they'll go away.

I starved and cut myself three more times in the remaining two weeks – each starvation period around 31 hours.

I only cut my left forearm so far. I still don't think I can cope with anger very well. I got in an argument with my parents, which made me throw my cell phone down an empty street that broke the functional parts of the cell phone off. I fixed it and it works now, but I still think about cutting. I still wish I had a razor, but I'm afraid of buying one from a hardware store. I'm afraid they will wonder what I will do with it, so I don't buy one. I wish I had a pack so I could see how easy it is to work with, like what everyone else says. Even when I am calmly sitting in my room, whenever I look at my scar, I think about how nice it would be to make another cut. I am not angry when I think about making another cut, which is the strange part of the thought. Though, I think I will cut tonight because of an argument with my parents today.

I've read that cutting becomes addictive. I don't know if I'm on that path. I'm afraid that I am, or I will be. I just wish that I know how to deal with anger. I usually run a mile or two when I'm angry, but seeing as how problems come to me at inconvenient times (like at night), I cannot run, so instead I think about cutting. Whenever I feel like cutting, and I am mad, I always think that no one cares. Maybe that is true. I'm not sure. My parents keep telling me that I changed this way after the many problems with my roommates. If that is the case, I wish I never made the decision to live with them. I wish that the really peaceful days that came with loneliness back in high school would come again. It's better than this. It seems things are getting worse since I graduated from high school, but I am with a new roommate now. I should be happy, but I still think about cutting almost every night, even though I don't do it. I know it's wrong to self-harm, but I can't help but thi nk those thoughts. I don't know why I cut now. It used to be for suicidal reasons, but I'm not sure if I will really have the courage to do that. Maybe it is true that I have just started down the path of addiction in cutting.


submitted by: Anonymous
on: 21 Oct. 2008
in Ritual

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Artist: me
Studio: bathroom
Location: america

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