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My Story For All To Hear

Whilst I'm not proud of myself for what I used to do, I think that this a story I will feel so much better if I get out of my system... So here goes:

Between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, I used to cut, burn and mutilate myself. I'd use anything that looked sharp enough to break my skin. Among my tools I counted a pair of kitchen scissors, several broken Bic Ladyshaves and once with a piece of glass from a television screen.

I started off quite mildly, just scratching at myself with safety pins or badge pins, never really drawing blood, barely grazing the skin, and then picking at the scabs until they bled. I used to bite my nails so far down that they bled and got infected and them leave them all infected. From that I progressed onto using the point of a pair of scissors and a pair of compasses out of my school maths set. For about a year there wasn't a day went passed that I didn't come home from school, with some imagined slight, that I'd magnify and magnify in my head until it was blown completely out of proportion, and then I would hurt myself until I felt "right" again.

I kept what I was doing well hidden from my parents, who would have sent to as many pyschologists as they could have found in the Yellow Pages... I knew it wasn't a very clever thing to do, but I still carried on. I think I thought it made me special... sounds sick, doesn't it? When I reached the age of fifteen I started using heavy-duty things to cut myself with. I stole a scalpel blade from a science class at school and I broke the plastic casings from cheap disposable razors. I used to take knives out of the kitchen and hide them until my parents had gone to bed. I discovered a new trick, of heating the wheel on a cigarette lighter, and burning my arm with it, I learnt that if you repeatedly burn over scar tissue, you'll leave welts and marks that will never go away and will look just as livid and red as the day you created them.

The day I realised I had to stop what I was doing took longer to get to me than you would think. Six long painful years after I started cutting and burning myself, I tried to commit suicide. That night I felt as if nothing in the world would ever be right again. I had just found out that my boyfriend who I was engaged to was cheating on me and had been for several months, with a work colleague. I had lost my job a week previously due to "my terrible moping attitude" which was only present because I was depressed. I didn't know what to do. I remember being overly dramatic and working out where I would do it, where would be the best place for me to be found and all sorts of other pathetic thoughts. I took an awfully large number of pain killers and decided to slit my wrists. I'd read about how you were supposed to do it, and I steadied my nerves and finished my drink.

As I made the first cut vertically down the inside of my wrist, the skin split open, and before the blood, came the realization that I had just opened up a huge 4 inch gash in my wrist which was literally spraying blood all over the newly painted living room.

I think it was at the point that I saw the bone in my wrist that my survivor instinct kicked in. There was something utterly appalling at seeing something internal, being well, external. I looked at my arm, gobsmacked for about five minutes before I realised that I had to do something about it. I went into my bathroom, wrapped it in wet flannels and waited for the bleeding to stop. A couple of years down the road and I'm fine now. I stopped abusing my body and realised that if I wanted interesting scars and body adornments, they didn't need to come from my depression. Just for the record, when said ex-fiance came home at three in the morning from fancy piece's house, he looked at my arm, told me I was pathetic and to pull myself together and then dumped me right then and there for attention-seeking..... Amazing, isn't it that he had to split up with me because I couldn't see the sense of leaving him. Now when I get the urge to hurt myself or do anything stupid, I make an appointment for a new tattoo or piercing and have my mutilation carried out in a far more controlled and accepted manner...


submitted by: Anonymous
on: 27 June 2002
in Scarification

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