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Amy
Copyright, Amy
I first started to cut, actually over 2 years ago. It feel so much longer... hurting myself has just been so deeply intergrated into who I am that it's hard to imagine a time or place when the desire isn't there. The first time I cut, it was accidental - I had a pocketknife and cut my finger, but I was immediately engrossed in the blood that I was able to squeeze out. I then cut the tip of my finger with the same pocketknife a few other times, once at my own house, and once at a birthday party sleepover at my friend's house. I had gotten the idea, I believe, from my little brother's friend. That was all at the end of seventh grade, and it was very minor. My parents did end up finding out about it, but nothing was done.
The first serious incident of cutting was a few days after christmas, in eighth grade. I had gotten a beautiful Arabic dagger for Christmas, and I was home alone with my brother one night. I can't remember exactly what made me do it, but I started cutting my wrists and legs. Not very deep, but I had cut many times. I remember I carved the initials of my boyfriend, or at that time he was actually my ex-boyfriend, into my left leg. I showed my brother this, and he was rather upset, but he didn't do anything about it. A few days before that, I had cut my hand a few times with the same dagger. The next day, I cut a few deeper slices in my calves, and still, no one noticed, for which I was very grateful. That Sunday night, I think, I used my pocketknife to cut the inside of both my elbows, where they draw blood from, and you can see the vain pop up.
Monday rolled around, and I was rather upset. I can't remember exactly what upset me, but I actually think I remember something happening with Andrew, a rather distant friend of mine. I'm not sure, though. But I cut class and went into the girl's room, and cut a deep gash in both my forearms with the pocketknife my father had given me (I had the habit of carrying it around wherever I went). That was, at that point, the deepest I had ever cut, and I was, oddly enough, not scared, but very reassured, and I was happy that they kept bleeding. I went to math class, and my ex notcied the cuts, and was very concerned, but didn't say anything. That lunch, I went to sit with my friends, and I might have gotten away with cutting that time, were it not for the fact that the cuts were still bleeding badly, and while I was resting my arm on the table, I didn't notice that a pool of blood had gathered underneath. I went to go get towels to clean it up, but by the time I came back, the nurse was there, and she escorted me down to her office, where I was looked at, and it was decided that I should go to an emergency room. After a LONG wait there, they decided not to give me stitches, even though I should have gotten them, my doctor says, and I went back home, forced to go to more intensive therapy. I was able to stop cutting for a long timew - from that January to this fall, 11 long monthes. Except for one time that spring, where I do remember cutting my thighs, and my stomach, as well as burning myself.
But during this November, my freshman year, I started cutting again. I had had my pocketknife and dagger taken away from me, but I got an exacto knife from my dad's work place and cut my shin and stomach. It quickly feel into a habit once again, and every day I started and ended with cutting, always on my shins. Usually I used shaving razors or an exacto knife, and the cuts were not all that deep, but sometimes I used my father's kitchen knife, which is very sharp, and I cut myself pretty deeply with that. I can't remember when they found out I was cutting exactly, but I do remember it was because a girl at the winter dance saw me cutting myself in the girl's bathroom. That was unfortunate, and I was put under somewhat heavier restriction, but nothing else basically happened until I got razor blades, which I think was in February. I cut my arm once with them, but that was it. I overdosed late February, and had to go to the ER (it was just 6 friggin ibuprofen!) and a few weeks later stuck a safety pin in my wrist. Either that, or it was the other way around...I can't remember which happened first. But I was put in a partial hospitalization program, which completely sucked. I was in the program for five days, going there instead of school. And about another month passed I beleive, and it came to be mid-April. I was feeling pretty upset about one of my friends, who was in a crappy mood, and I took one of my barely-used razors and cut my thigh. I didn't realize how sharp the razors were...the cut went deep, to the fat layer. It started bleeding, and I was up pretty much that whole night trying to get it to stop bleeding, and trying to clean up the evidence of it. The next day was hell. I wore black pants, but there was still a pretty pbvious stain on them - even though I kept putting on new band-aids, the blood kept soaking through them, and if I rested my hand on my pants, it would come away soaked with blood. I went home, and my two best friends tried to help me cover while I changed pants. I bled through 5 pairs pf pants that day...oh well. That night, my dad saw blood in the bathroom and asked me if I had cut. I said no, but he asked to check, and he saw blood all down my leg, and the make-shift tourniquet I had wrapped around the cut. He took me to the ER, and after waiting a long time, till 1 in the morning, the doctor came and stitched the cut up (21 suchers). I waited again, and a nurse came and gave me a psych eval. They decided I needed hospitalization, and I went to Amesbury hospital. It was pretty horrible there, but after a week that felt like a year, I was let out, and I haven't cut since. That was late April, it's the middle of June now.
The desire to harm myself is still very strong in me... allthough I have been hurting myself by picking at my fingernails/fingers and face, and throwing up stuff that I eat (I've stopped that), it's not the same as cutting. To be honest, I don't know how I've been able to stop for so long. I guess just the fear of going back to the hospital. I cannot wait until I am in college...sweet releif. I cannot say exactly why I want to harm myself so much, it's just become a way of life and a coping skill. At first it was partially, or maybe even completely, for attention, but that's changed completely. Seeing the blood and the scars proves that my suffering is real, and it gives me something physical to distract me from my emotional pain, I think. I love seeing the blood. I know it probably sounds crazy, but it really isn't, it's just the same as anyone who smokes, or does drugs, or things like that. It's something to help you escape your problems - it's not healthy, but it does work. And I miss it like hell.