Psyke.org

Alex

Ouch

Copyright Alex

I started cutting myself when I was eleven years old. I didn’t even really know what it was — I saw something on television once about a girl who had cut herself, and I wondered if it would work for me the way it had worked for her. I’d had a particularly bad day, and I was walking in the park by my house when I saw the broken glass bottle. I picked up one of the shards and started scratching my arm with it. Now even enough to bleed, just enough to twinge a bit. And believe it or not, it did make me feel better. I’m not sure why exactly, though I have a few theories. All I know is, it felt good. So what happens next? I find myself at home, scratching my arm with a seam ripper. That’s how they started, as scratches. But soon, scratches didn’t hurt anymore. So I graduated to a new level.

I bought a pencil sharpener and took the blade from it. I cut my arm — small cuts, barely bled, but worse than the scratches. They hurt much worse than my previous puny scratches, and I loved every single one. Until I cut deep enough to scar.

I hated my scars. They were the bane of my existence. Plus, those cuts got more attention. I was committed, something that absolutely nobody in my life knows. I was committed for about a month. It was outpatient, so I was allowed out for school, but then I would be sent back there where I lived and attended therapy. It was hell. I hated it. I hated the hospital more than I hated my scars.

But as soon as I got out, I started cutting again. This time, I was a bit smarter about it. I cut in different places, none of them visible. And then, one day, I cut until I couldn’t feel it anymore. So what did I do? I got out my lighter and a safety pin and made several 2nd degree burns, all overlapping each other. I knew I had gone way too far this time. But it still didn’t stop me. I continued cutting and burning. And then I formed a new habit — drugs. I am currently a member of Narcotics Anonymous. For a long time, I was addicted to prescription painkillers, lortab being my favorite. At a horrible time in my life, when everything was going wrong, I switched from painkillers to cocaine and heroin. Let me tell you, beating coke is so hard. But beating junk is harder. The withdrawal from it was the most painful thing I have ever experienced in my entire life. I have only been clean a couple weeks, and I am already craving it again. Drugs are the most horrible things you can ever get mixed up in, and I was in deep. But now I am getting help, and soon it will all get easier.

I am still a cutter. I won’t pretend I’m not. However, now I know what I am doing is dangerous and I always make an effort to distract myself whenever I get the urge. Anyone who says cutting isn’t an addiction is wrong. It is an addiction. It is a horrible addiction that takes a lot of time and a hell of a lot of will power to beat. But it’s not impossible. Someday, I will be OK. And until then, I take my life one moment at a time.

Self Injury Story

Copyright Alex

I don’t know how exactly it started or when it started. I just know I have been stuck in it for quite some time. Before it all started I had little self worth. After the self worth I had before is used up. I’ve always hated myself for one thing or another. I use self injury as a coping tool but also as self punishment. I hate my feelings and emotions, so when I feel down I take out the razor. It is much easier to cut myself then to talk to people about my problems, my feelings. People tend to think im whining or get sick of me or mad at me. I have to try and explain how I feel to them when I don’t even know myself how I feel. In the past few recent months I’ve quit cutting. Yet it hasn’t left my mind, my desires, my heart, my skin, my scars. When I’m down, my skin craves to be cut, to feel the fresh warm blood, that smell. I had very little coping mechanisms before I cut to deal with how I always feel, hell, so in that I think thats a major reason I started. Since cutting I’ve lost what I used to have. Instead of going and skating or playing basketball or running or screaming or crying or something constructive I desire to cut my skin, to bleed. My mind turns to this horrid desire every day because my feelings are always there, are always torturing me inside, poison. I don’t know how much longer I can go without releasing it. To end this short yet complex letter is a great quote from one of my few role models, Richey Edwards: ‘Might as well be heaven this hell, on these cloudy afternoons I cant seem to find myself.’

Untitled

Copyright Alex

I’m a thirteen year old girl and I started cutting over a year ago (late September or early October 2003) and I don’t remember what happened but I was so angry I took a knife into my room and just started slashing my arms. After that I was soo happy but I remember being at dinner and my arms burning up from the cuts, I remember once when I was being really pressured and getting in trouble for stealing and all I took a pair of scissors to the palms of my hands, I had forgot about that. The cutting ended up to continue every day at school at home anywhere. Then I got kicked out of school (living in the wrong district) and was out of school for over a month which gave me more “me” time. Then I moved again and my mom had told me to lift up my sleeves, I guess she was suspicious I was always crying and locking myself in my room even with no power I would cry on my bare bedroom floor listening to suicidal songs, anyway I had no choice so I did and she called me psycho and she told my six year old sister to call me a psycho too. I went downstairs to my room and got a new sharper knife and started cutting deeper I slept on a chair that night. Well, once I moved and started a new school I had to see a counsellor she found out my secret and called social services. I had a meeting on December 17th and on December 18th I was on a plane to live with my dad and grandma in Florida (I’m from Michigan). When I moved I couldn’t eat without remembering the crying face of my mom and my sister coming home without a sister it was too much. So I became anorexic (which later came to bulimia), but I did stop cutting on my own for about two or three months. When I started school in January my counsellor there told my grandma and dad to get me help they refused anyway the day finally came, I had one day to do a project on the computer and the only computer is at my aunt and uncles they said I couldn’t go on the computer I called my uncle an idiot and they sent me outside without a coat or sweater in about thirty degree weeather, I found a pair of scissors in my backpack went inside to the bathroom filled the sink up with water and cut. Watching the blood drip into the water. After that my counsellor again found out and told my dad to take me to a hospital (mental) and he didn’t he dropped me off at home and went somewhere he called work and my grandma was bitching at me telling me I only did it to get out of class and to get attention and that I was too pathetic to even be here. Well I cut again. The next day I was escorted to a hospital by a police officer. Stayed there from Thursday to Monday night (at least there was a really hot guy there, I mean sexy) and my granny only visited me once didn’t bring me any clothes. I had to fucking stay in the same fucking panties for five fucking days. That was so disgusting. Anyway I got home, anyway for the next few months it was like go change your clothes you look like a freak (which is what I want to look like) and then “I know you took those pills where the hell are they”. I was accused of stealing sleeping pills that night was the first time I used a razorblade it was so amazing how it so easily cut the skin. I could actually hear the skin rip those cuts were some of the worst I’ve done it was so amazing I felt so high laying in bed arms open blood dripping onto the blood red carpet, then a few months after that I found needles (my granny used needles to give the dogs their shots) I found one unopenrd I pricked the skin it was so painless I couldn’t understand but when I took it out a whole bunch of blood was coming out and I had a friend staying the night that night and she had been in the shower for already fifteen minutes and a bruise had already formed and anyway I kept doing that without anyone knowing it it all ends up with me moving back to Michigan meeting a guy that huurt me soo much more than I ever had been he stole from us and stole drugs from me and we moved again and now I’m pretty happy besides my scars and without my Prozac I won’t survive anyway I haven’t done anything in about three months and I’m proud. If anyone wants to I’m me I’m on AIM: addictd2david27 or psycotcstrangr27.

Untitled

Copyright Alex

starry eyed
bright mind
no one knows what she hides
living another life
all he thoughts lead to suicide
no matter what she tries she cant push those thoughts aside
starry eyes
bright mind
no one knows what she hides
no one can save her
from the person within
a red flood
of her own blood
and yet she has no fear
of the wound before her eyes
as the cut appears
she knows everything she thought she knew turned out to be all lies

i cant stop dreaming
i cant stop wishing
for everyone to stop caring
so I can go back to cutting
and feel the warmth of the blood
bleed out of the cut
and to take a razorblade
and slit
my wrist
and think about the past
wonder what lies ahead
im bleeding
anticipating
felling sympathetic
troubled
and abused
i fall asleep still bleeding
thinking im in heaven then I wake up in hell
and take another beating

 

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