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12 Yr Old Cutter
Copyright, Anonymous
I'm 12, I was cutting when I was 11 and started burning and hurting myself when I was 10. My parents never really cared, between the verbal abuse, molestation, and just plane abuse; there wasn't much time for me. So I wanted attention, unfortunately when I tried nothing happened. Sure the usual 4 visits to a shrink, and about 1 conversation with my parents about why I did it. I decided to stop, but could and a yr. later went at it again. I thought it was stupid and promised myself I wouldn't, but beginning 7th grade really pissed me off, so started once more.
I've been cutting for almost a yr. now, I've got about 17 current cuts, and about 12 scars, and 1 burn, I just started a while ago with burning, it's not something I like to do, but hey, it works. My so-called friend left me when I told her. Now I feel like her life is fucked up because she asked and I told her.
But hey, I'm not a favor of the razors, but just a few days ago I found there good. So now I start all my work with that, and finish it with my favorite knife. I partly cut because I want attention. And I partly cut because of the blood. I can never get enough of it. So any chance I get to taste it just calms me down.
I'm the youngest and my brother acts likes he's my dad. He almost is, only because he's beat me, and broken my bones more than once. I get in fights with kids in my neighborhood a lot. No one in my family cares if I come home bloody. So whatever. I just say forget it. And walk out. Lately I haven't been very social like. That but I just watch TV and on the computer. So who cares what they take from me. I don't. They spend all there time on my brother. I'm sick and tired of him. God why can't he die?
I started at the ankles and worked up to my wrist and my stomach. I've got 6 slashes on my stomach and 1 word, DI. I like the pain. It makes me feel like I'm still alive. I scare myself often because I don't want to die just yet. But I'm afraid I will.
All my cuts on my ankles are crosses. And all on my stomach are slashes. Except for the word. And my wrist is just a slit. But no one really notices them. But I'm afraid that someone will find out the trust, and than I'll be but in a hospital. I don't know if I have an honest problem with clinics. I want to get help, but I cannot, and I'm afraid. Plus I don't know of a good therapist. I won't talk to one unless I like them. And they don't bother me. My other one was pissing me off. And wasn't much fun. I don't really like 'em. I need to talk to someone I trust. Someone that cares and doesn't think I'm trash. I'm so pissed at this world. Sometimes I wonder why I can't die.
I some how always believe that things happen for a reason. But now I'm beginning to question my thought.