Anonymous
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Copyright, Anonymous
My life goes from bad to worse through the days, I’m a only child who is child abused by a step father, everyday I experience pain from a 210 lb ogre. School gets worse, I get jumped by seniors and I’m only a freshman. That’s funny because I don’t know why I have these things happen to me. My girlfriend is cheating on me and yet I still go out with her because she is the only person, well sorta I have. I’ve lost everything, my mother to a car accident, my father to cancer, and my sister to burning house accident. I realize that I’m depressed and suicidal. I cut my arms and forearms at least once every two days to get something out, I believe it’s emotion or anger that’s inside of me that I can’t get out through words, my friends, well they couldn’t care less since they are too busy on coke. if someone even bothers to read this, well you probably want to know how my life is gonna end. Thoughmy step father encourages it even more by kicking the crap out of me like if I were a punching bag, I may just consider to forget about the cut in the arms and go for the heart.
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Copyright, Anonymous
OK, my parents split up when I was 6 years old. Ever since then I had a hard time dealing with it. Now I’m 14 years old and I’m hurting myself. I tried killing myself 4 times. Either one didn’t work. I always got caught. But the last time I did it, I was home alone. I starved myself and I took about 30 pills and after that I couldn’t remember anything. I woke up the next day, started puking and I was so weak and so pissed that it didn’t work. But in some ways I’m glad it didn’t work. I still cut myself, but I’m slowly getting better. My life is just a little better, but I’m working it out.
Anonymous
Copyright, Anonymous
I started at 11 or 12, I don’t really remember when exactly, it was quite gradual. I know it was that year though because of where we lived at the time, I remember starting it all in that house. I was the new kid in school, a new country even, so I didn’t really fit in at all, and on top of that got picked on by a lot of people in my year and the year above. Nothing really serious just a constant barrage of insults and nasty little comments.
So whenever someone said something to me, I’d do all the usual things people do when they’re trying to control anger or something, like digging my nails into the palm of my hand or biting my lip, and after a while it wasn’t really enough. I’d draw blood when I used my nails, and I’d go home and scratch at my arms with my finger nails. Things got quite bad, because school was hell and it was difficult at home for lots of reasons, got on badly with my parents and brother and stuff. And I scratched my arms up so much that my nails were blunted down so much they were useless.
The first ‘tool’ I really ever used was my compass, it was in my pencil case and I sat on the bus on the way to school, tore into my hands with it and blamed the cat. Did that most mornings before school, but on my shoulders or stomach as it was a hot country and I wore t-shirts all the time.
I’d burn myself with matches, on my hands where I could say it was an accident at school, didn’t do that much though because it was already getting to a point where I needed to see the blood.
No one at this time really realized how I felt, and no one ever really asked so I never told anyone. The closest I got was in a piano lesson in school (the only time I ever learnt a musical instrument, I hated it), I broke down and my teacher was so kind and understanding that I nearly told him everything, but didn’t and just said the cat had died.
The next year we moved to England again, and yet again I was the new girl who didn’t fit in at all. I got upset and angry one night just after I started school, and tore at my face with my fingernails until it bled. I got picked on at school for the next 2 years for that, everyone remembered it and I made up some lie about how I’d done it in my sleep because of a dream or something. My mum took me to the doctor about it because I lied to her and said I had no idea how it happened, and he gave me lots of tablets for a skin disease and didn’t really have a look at it.
I got a penknife as a present for doing well in my D of E, my dad thought it’d be useful for the next camping trip, and it really was. I was on holiday with a lot of girls I really didn’t get on with and one night it got too much and I cut into my wrists with this knife and it was the ultimate release, I’d never felt so free. Of course, it being my wrists it got seen, it’s hard to hide when there are huge dark red lines across your wrists, no matter how much you try to cover it. So I lied again, said it was the cat kicking it’s back feet, which was plausible, we had a new, very vicious little cat at the time. The cuts were really random at the time but afterwards looked like a rabbit head, sort of anyway, so I called it my pet rabbit and I still have it, very light because it’d been healed for years, but it’s still there. I quite like it in some twisted little way.
It got really bad and people started noticing, which was a really awful thing to happen because I have never fitted in because of it, but I am strangely glad I was so crap at hiding what I was doing. There was another kid in my year who did it, with him it was very much a ‘look at me’ thing, with me it wasn’t, but at least he knew how I felt and why I did it, so we started talking and got along brilliantly, and are still best friends, I can’t imagine life without him.
So I suppose this one good thing came out of it.
My parents found out when I was 14, I had another friend who I talked to about cutting myself, who also did it, but I wasn’t really that close to him for so long, we fell out a lot over petty little things. But he got really worried at one point and told the school, who then told my mum one day while I was at school, so I got home to ‘the chat’. Didn’t know a thing about it. I had to start counselling and my parents and the school watched me constantly.
So I found other ways to hurt myself. I stopped eating for about 4 months and only started again because my friend got so upset by it. I hit myself a lot, and I’d overdose a few times a week, never really very majorly, just enough to make me really ill.
I overdosed to kill myself a couple of times but it obviously didn’t work, one time my friend found me and actually physically made me throw it all up, and the other time I just sort of woke up. I would slit my wrists open from my elbow to the palm of my hand, the whole inner arm, and bleed myself unconscious. No one ever found me like that, I did it a number of times and always just woke up in a complete mess hours later.
I cut for the whole time I was in school, carried on afer that, and had a long time last year when I was doing it on and off, every few months I’d go through another cutting spree, lasting a few weeks. I got really bad after that and would be doing up to a thousand considerably sized cuts every day, on my arms, legs, stomach, hands and sometimes my neck. Would write things as well, really teenage things like “FUCK LIFE” and stuff. Quite funny when I think back on it.
I still cut badly, I am having a couple of on-duty months in the land of cutting, after a nice rest of a few weeks.
Anyway, now that you are thoroughly bored, I’ll shut up.
Me
Copyright, Anonymous
I guess I’ve always had a thing for pain ever since I was a little girl. I think it all started back when I was 12 years old. I hated my body and my parents were strict on me and pain made me feel good. It was exciting it was like I was breaking a rule and no one could do anything about it. I never started cutting. It was originally just hitting myself with a ruler or taking a freezing cold shower or little scratches. Then as the years went by I graduated to more serious self mutilation. I would cut myself but almost never left any bad scars till it started getting out of control when I was 16. I remember I cut so often and if I wasn’t cutting I was crying in my room. I remember I always had so much to share but no one to hear it or no one that wanted to hear it. It always seemed that no matter how many people I told I cut nothing ever helped. Talking about it just made me feel worse and even more exasperated. It made alot of my friends upset which just made things more difficult for me. I never cut too deep. But one day when I was 8 I cut deep enough to need stitches and that when I realized it was a little more serious that I had tried to make it out to be. I still don’t think its so bad it’s not like I was ever trying to kill myself. All I know was that after that I cut again but not as deep. And after being to the hospital twice and having to stay locked up there and seeing the bill made me stop. Who knows one day I might do it again. But for now I’m ok.
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Copyright, Anonymous
Self-injury is addictive, mainly because it works. I started on my 21st birthday, which for some reason pushed me over the edge. An experiment in the shower with a razor led to long slices on my legs. Soon that didn’t give me the “calm” I needed so I stabbed my leg with a mechanical pencil multiple times, then came cutting words into my flesh. As I type this I can’t wear short sleeves because of the “Evil” I have inscribed on my left forearm. Then there’s the “Loser” on my ankle and the “Failure” that is on my right calf. The failure took 26 cuts, so deep that it took me 4 months to heal completely. A few weeks ago the scar healed over enough for me to wear shorts. I then sliced 26 new cuts all over it. So much for me wearing skirts. If people knew what SI does to you, how it makes you feel. You’ve found that something, that something that keeps you fighting. I have yet to find something, that when I’m under extreme duress or stress, offers that quiet whisper that “we’ll make everything alright.”
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Copyright, Anonymous
I have been cutting myself for about a year and a half now, all cuts getting worse each time. I remember my first cut the most though, I was in my house after an argument with my mum about her and my dad’s divorce and who I wanted to stay with. Anyway things got heated and she ended up telling me that she hated me even though I said I wanted to stay with her. I went into the bathroom and picked up a razor that was beside the bath, freed the blade within, and lightly drew the blade over the inside of my arm. Not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a white line that stayed there for a while. I found that this made my heart pound and made me feel better so I tried again, harder this time, a lot harder. The blood trickled down my arm and onto the floor. I felt satisfied with it so I moved onto a new cut and did about 6 or 7 more down my arm until it was covered in blood. From then on I haven’t stopped.
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Copyright, Anonymous
I never seem to get anything right, even though I try so hard.
I’ve just come out of a 3 year relationship and am feeling really alone. I’m scared of myself; this is all coming out as a jumbled mess sorry.
I’ll start from the beginning. My first real love was when I was 16 or 17. The guy beat me up gave me brain damage and left me epileptic. About a week after being diagnosed my parents split up. It wasn’t long before they gave me Prozac and Venlafaxine and I muddled on for a good 2-3 years actually being happy for long periods of time; mostly due to the guy I’ve just split from.
Then my Mum told me over and over again how she wished I had never been born and I wasn’t wanted and without me she could have a life. So I became homeless. Went to live with the boyfrend, started using drink and drugs to forget her words. She said awful things, things that I can’t even imagine saying to an enemy let alone my own daughter (I don’t have a daughter; figure of speech).
Just recently I’ve taken loads of time off work feeling unhappy and alone, my flatmates are bastards they don’t consider how early I have to get up and stay up late every night, this has lead to tension with the neighbours. I haven’t slept properly for ages and I’m so tired, money issues mean I can’t afford to eat not that I want to or pay rent. I’m going under and last night I found out that a practical joke I played on a friend who is a great practical joker has backfired completely and now a great load of people in my hometown hate me.
I took 48 Ibuprofen last night and was truly disappointed when I woke up this morning and vomited all over my floor. Better luck tonight.
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Copyright, Anonymous
I am 19 years old and I have had self injury for 6 years. I starting cutting because I got made fun of so much by other children in school. My mind couldn’t handle all of the emotions that I was feeling. I was always too afraid to take up for myself. I knew that if I did that it would only make things worse. So I began to make little cuts on my arm with a pair of scissors. Later on in life I started using a pocket knife. My cuts became much more violent. Instead of little cuts on my left arm I now had big long cuts. That were much worse. For a long time cutting really helped me. I thought that I would always be a cutter but, that changed for me about 3 weeks ago. Something had happened to me that made me really mad. I was really wanting to cut. So I got out my pocket knife and cut my left arm several times. I was in the dark when I cut so I really didn’t notice at the time how bad it really was. So I got out my flash light and looked at my cuts. I had a few small cuts and a really big gash. The gash was really deep. Seeing how deep I cut myself made me realize that I had to stop being a cutter. If I didn’t stop then next time the cut might be worse than that one. So I got rid of all of my weapons. I haven’t cut in almost 3 weeks. It’s hard because I still get that urge to cut myself. I just try to take it one day at a time. That’s all anyone can do.
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Copyright, Anonymous
Horrible days suffocated me in the back room for years after I was 10 and had decided to let go of feeling lonely and shedding tears. I had spent a few more years in the grips of a blade or razor, even scissors if I had to. Instead of trying to make them understand, I read my books, every one I could rest hands on because I was so intelligent and my life was going to be great. Words like that would pound in my head as my grades slipped and my hurt turned to anger and resentment. And then after a couple years, the cutting stopped, completely. Everything I felt disappeared until I felt nothing. No hurt could touch me and no tears could escape. So when my heart grew heavy I would sit in the back room, lounging back in the pink chair, and I would watch the sunlight dance off the wall. The feeling would drown me until I was consumed by nothing else. The seasons changed and yet everyday after school I sat there and stared at the same spot on the wall and the tree still trembled there and the sun still danced. And I couldn’t ignore the heavy feeling in my legs and the hurt that still lingered in the air as I breathed in my shallow, painful breaths. Junior year of high school started and so did my cutting. I can’t say exactly when or how or why, but none of that has any relevance anymore. Family and friends never knew, it wasn’t for them to know, and my individuality covered it well with wraps and bracelets. This was an addiction. Even just thinking about it would get my skin crawling on my wrist. It’s like a drug that you know will hurt you, and yet you take it anyway to feel as alive as you can. When I needed to escape, or I felt horrible stress mounting over me, or I felt hurt and angry, completely numb, out of control, I could take out that blade, cold and wonderful and brush it against my skin. I would press down it’s torture into my skin and hear it tear, just a bit. It was a sweet self torture, that would release everything that tears could not and give me pleasure enough to feel alive. Hurt so good had new meaning. Until Victor found out, and I promised him to stop and couldn’t hold to that. The pain in his eyes filled me with tears for the first time in 7 years. So I stopped, and then had only my rubberbands to slap my wrists. Pain in any way possible. And I felt broken. Through this my dear chris died and I thought for sure the only way out was my loneliness and my blade. But Victor held me and took my blade, forced a hole in me through which all my pain began to filter through. And I no longer wear rubberbands. For almost 2 months now I have performed no act of pain on myself at all. And though thinking of it makes it hard, I now know there are other things to make me feel alive, to relieve my stress and anger, my hurt, and to keep me in control.
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Copyright, Anonymous
I have been cutting since I was 10 years old. I can’t even remember the first time I cut, but I remember lots of times inbetween. Even in elementary school I cut in the tunnels on the playground during recess alone. All during my childhood I had no one. Now I am 17 years old. This spring I was caught. Now I know I was suspected before then. However any one that suspected did not care enough to push it. But I’ve always known it was “not good”. I had no other choice. I had concidered getting psychological help. But as a minor I couldn’t do so on my own and how could I explain to my parents not to worry because nothing was the matter I just all of a sudden decided I needed therapy.
Unfortunately or maybe fortunately all my decisions were made for me. My teacher suspected me because of my opinions on the topic as expressed in class, and I suppose my entire outlook and attitude in my psychology class. He saw a razor in my bag which I guess was plenty for him. He reported me later that day. Of course since I am only 17 the school called my parents. They still don’t want to believe it and in end result they don’t. I still am not going to get any kind of help.
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Copyright, Anonymous
A month ago, I felt so much pressure, that I thought I would do anything to get out of all that pressure. Well, I decided (I guess it was a dessision) to end my life. So I took 8 Zoloft pills. I ended up in a mental hospital. But I talked my way out of there. Since then all I do is think of what would happen if I accually got the help I really need. I thought after trying to kill myself would get my parents to know that I needed help. But my parents never got the picture. So now I live with my parents and I still hurt myself. I almost tried killing myself again.
A Girl Lost in Suicide Thoughts
Copyright, Anonymous
Being young, people look at me like, I don’t understand what I was trying to do every time I cut myself. It was my way to release anger, it was also my way of hoping I’d hit the artery on my arm so I would die. I almost jumped off a bridge but somebody pulled my arms when I let go, somebody I didn’t even know. After going through abuse and such, I just didn’t see a reason to live. My dad tries to tell me how bad cutting is, but I can’t see beyond it. My boyfriend goes crazy when I cut, but I feel I’ve failed the world anyways so it doesn’t matter. My dad doesn’t give a fuck anyways. He used to encourage me to kill myself. People tell me they want me to stop cutting, but you have to want to stop cutting deep down inside. I want to die, I won’t stop cutting, I won’t stop hurting myself purposely, but others cry out and say they can’t stop. It stops if you want it to stop, get it over with, or watch yourself suffer or pull through. I like watching myself suffer. After all, I deserve it don’t I? That’s what I’ve been told by my father and the rest of the world. As my so called friend said, “go suicide” thinking that it didn’t affect me. I can’t cry anymore, because I’ve been hit with almost everything you can think of. Sometimes I want to cry. But I can’t. I’m just a lonely, lost girl in this world. And the clock ticks. My darkest hour is coming, closer and closer as every minute passes and the blood runs down my arm. My eyes have been clouded, and I can’t see the real world, I’m surrounded by darkness, thrown in the corner, like a broken doll.
N
Copyright, Anonymous
In the last year alone I have tried to kill myself twice. I have also lost a friend who recently took their own life. I am still depressed and am not sure as to whether I still wish to be here or not. I know for those of you who have lost someone to suicide this is probably the last thing you want to hear. Just take comfort in that when you do try to kill yourself although it may seem to be a selfish thing to do, it seems maybe only at the time as the whole world would be better off without you in it. Never ever feel guilty or as if you could have done more because when you are suicidal you cannot think you hate yourself so much and no one else so it makes no difference if other people love you because you hate yourself and you can never change that. Suicide is an awful thing to have to face either as someone who has lost someone or someone who has tried to do it. But either way the hurt lessens.
See Through my Eyes
Copyright, Anonymous
My visit to a psychiatrist last week was disappointing and hurtful. Unable to accept the help he offered, he accused me of damaging my children, which in my mind is the worst thing I could ever do. I asked myself then, why live if I am hurting them so much? My children tell me that in taking my life, I would forever scar them, ruin their lives forever. I know of scars and suffering, I wish this on nobody, especially my own children. The psychiatrist said that my self injuring behavior was hurting my kids, ages 17 & 18. He did not ask me even once of my own pain, or of the reasons I self injure. I would have told him that it was my way of dealing with inner pain, my way of staying alive. He asked me if I wanted my children to sign committal papers and have me committed into a hospital, he accused me of secretly wanting this. That isn’t true. Nobody seeks to understand the turmoil within me. The frustration I pose to these professionals, these doctors, can’t begin to equal my own frustration with myself.
I am an adult woman. Yet there is still within me, so deeply ingrained in my soul, my childhood upbringing. My father, an exceptional provider, strict, with old Quaker values. My mother, a homemaker, a child of abuse. I was taught not to have problems and if I did, not to speak of them. It was considered a weakness. In my family you never asked for help, never. You never accepted help, never. You never spoke of personal family matters, never, not to friends, not to teachers, nobody. Don’t let these words pass by you lightly, this was the way of my family, it was the law and is still etched within every fiber of my being.
The doctors tell me that I am suffering from depression, a very common illness easily treated with medication. I suffer also from self injury, which I’m told is a symptom of depression. I lost my job, in part, because of this illness. I’m currently living one day at a time. I have wanted help, have tried to receive help, but I always back away, always deny my need. I think it’s because of my upbringing, knowing that talking of personal suffering is so wrong, so weak. Yes, it would be better to die. I cannot of course make a suicidal “attempt.” When I decide I have run out of time, I will have to succeed. For an attempt is a failure, failure is weakness.
Doctors, don’t judge me by the actions you see through your own eyes of me. Look instead through my eyes, see as I am seeing. Seek understanding. Save my life.
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Copyright, Anonymous
I am 13 years old and a few months ago I slit my wrists and there was blood everywhere. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I just felt that that was the only way out. Unfortunately a girl came and found me and I got rushed to hospital. I now have 50 pills ready for my birthday which is soon. I can’t live with all these problems and all this pain.
I Can’t Control It; Can You?
Copyright, Anonymous
The first time I ever cut my wrist was when I had my heart broken by the guy I loved and thought loved me. i lost all my friends.
Everything is fine now. My mates say they have forgiven me the boy. Well I still love him and I think I always will.
The problem is I know my mates still slag me off and that hurts. My mum and dad expect me to do everything when they say and absolutely perfectly. I can’t do that. I’m not clever. Teachers pick on me, I hate going to a private all-girls school, but I don’t have a choice. The last time I cut myself was Monday in the schools loos with a pen knife I took from home. I sat there crying, slashing my arm with no control over it! Sometimes my parents ground me; that makes me do it too, knowing I would have to spend a whole week in a hellhole and then my two days free locked in my bedroom with nothing to do than slit myself. If you are in this stiuation, please e-mail me.
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Copyright, Anonymous
The first time I ever did any major injury, where blood was present, was in the 6th grade. Before that, it was the usual scratching, bruising sort of thing. Then it evolved into cutting and burning. It wasn’t due to stress or parental stress, because I live with my grandparents. I was just bored. I have always felt pain. You see, I have PTSD from watching my mom die in a car accident when I was 2. Anyway, this may seem strange, about the first time that I did anything major. I was watching the Disney channel, when I just got up, went to the bathroom, broke apart a leg razor, and had at it. It was so sweet watching the blood trickle down my arm. The look like cat scratches at first. Nobody in my family noticed them until I was a junior in high school, and when they asked, I blamed it on the neighbors cat. I am a senior now. My grandma knows that I did it once because I told her, but she said “don’t do it again”. A few of my friends know, but they say dumb shit like “wasn’t that trendy like 3 years ago?” like it was some sort of fashion statement. If they only knew that I was imagining them bleeding and someone saying somehting like that. I started on my legs, my quads. No one can see them there, because I never wear shorts. They just keep getting bigger, and somethimes I like to sit in a tub of hot water and do it. I think it’s pretty when the water changes color. I will always do it, no matter what anyone says or does, if they try to stop me, I will find another way. That’s the problem with addictions of any kind. The emotional pain that you feel goes away and the pysical pain seems to numb everything. It takes over your mind. But the funny thing is that, after a while, the pysical pains starts to subside and you have to do more to get the same effect as when you first started. That leads to bigger and better scars. Half of me wants to stop, then the other half outweighs the other. It’s like the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. Who do you choose? I don’t know, maybe I’ll just keep doing it until I accidently slit with my razor and die. They will notice the scars then, won’t they?
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 plain 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 couldn’t and a year 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 year 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 they’re 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. I just watch TV and use the computer. So who cares what they take from me. I don’t. They spend all their 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 truth, and that I’ll be put 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 somehow always believe that things happen for a reason. But now I’m beginning to question my thought.
Sez
Copyright, Anonymous
I feel so alone, I hate myself and I want to die.
Kurt Cobain, 1967-1994
This all started when I lost my best mate and now I feel like there’s only one person who understands me. Myself. I have attempted suicide a number of times but I refuse to go to the doctors. I have three personalities, one at college, one at home and one when I am with my best mates.
My best mate got in a real panic when I sent him a text message saying that I had slit my wrists and I was sorry. We now think it’s because I saw my ex, who cheated on me with my best mate at the time. We had been dating for a while and I was really in love with him and he repaid all my life with sleeping with my then best mate. I feel like crap here and college is hard and I feel like I can’t eat but I comfort-eat till I’m sick.
I need to see a doctor I know but I’m scared he’ll tell my mom and I’ll get found out. This is my only outlet.
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I never wanted to do this,
you made me,
the bullies,
the pain,
my mom is cradling my and rocking
we sit and wait
to see if I’m gonna die
the consultant says I’m clear
I smile for my mom
I dont want to
I had cancer and was looking forward to dying soon.
now my only outlet is the pills?
no I cant
so grab my dads desert eagle,
put it in my mouth.
wait, wait,
cant do it.
so I hold it to my head.
pull the trigger and I’m finally gone!
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Copyright, Anonymous
Everything started when I was six years old. My sister got bulimia, clinical depression and she started to self harm. I didn’t understand because of my age.
When I was 11 I started to self harm. The first time I got a knife and I cut myself. It felt good I did it because I was being bullied at the time. Physical and verbal abuse. And I hated myself so much that I needed to inflict pain on myself. My dad also hit me a couple of times. This carried on till I was 13. I don’t really cut myself so seriously anymore I cut myself last night with a knife. But it just looks like cat scratches and it didn’t really pierce the skin. I’m glad to say I have started the long hard road to recovery. You should too.
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Copyright, Anonymous
Well this is my story on how my cutting started. I started cutting when I was 13 years old. I remember that I was being made fun of as usual and couldn’t take it. It was seriously messing up my brain. I felt like I was going crazy. So I took my nails down my arm as deep as I could and draged them across my arm. I remember feeling at ease. The pain felt so much better than the pain that I was going through inside my head. Then later on I started cuttting myself with my pocket knife. It just makes me feel better. I don’t know how to explain it.
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Copyright, Anonymous (female, 15 years old)
I started in the early spring of 8th grade. I had been feeling depressed all year but I had a feeling it was sort of in my head, like as if I wanted attention. I never told anyone I felt depressed, it was more as if I wanted myself to feel depressed. Anyway, the first time I did it, I was watching 7th Heaven and it was an episode in which one of the characters has a friend who cuts herself. I decided to try it, just to see if I could. First I used a needle and dragged it across my skin on my wrists, then I used a razor but not very deep at all. My friends saw my scars a few days later, but I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I realized I didn’t have to do it on my wrists, so I started doing it on my legs, all over them. I’d make long cuts from my knee to me ankle. A couple months later, I cut my wrists only deeper. That summer, I stopped for a month when I went on vacation with my family, then I had horse camp, so no opportunities to cut myself. But then, a week or so into high school, I started again. I haven’t slit my wrists for a couple months now cuz I have a doctor’s appointment soon. I just cut mainly the backs of my ankles (it bleeds a lot and it’s easily hidden by my socks). Also, a few weeks ago, I was on a self injury web site and it talked about burning, so now I burn my hands with an iron, but it’s not as good as cutting. I do it not for the blood loss, just for the blood. I’ve kept all the bloody tissues from every time I’ve ever cut myself in a bag in my closet. I’ve thought lately about killing myself, but not seriously. I’d never have the nerve. I just think how I’d be ok with it if I didn’t wake up in the morning. Unlike some people, I know I’m not alone. I know dozens of people at my school who cut. I can always tell, too. The things they wear, even the way they sit, or things they do with their arms that don’t look natural. I hate it but I can’t seem to stop. It has become my life. My friends were talking about it one day while I was there, and talking about who does it and how disgusting it is. I hurried to the bathroom, practically hyperventilating. Right now my fingers are shaking. I think I always thought that I’d get found out (even though I do everything I can to hide it), go to therapy, and automatically stop. In my reading at websites recently, though, I’ve realized that some people go to therapy and can’t stop for years. I hate it, but whenever I promise myself I’ll stop, I know in my heart I don’t want to, and sure enough, a couple days later I have to again. It just sucks.
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Copyright, Anonymous
I can’t remember how long I’ve felt like this. For at least 3 years ever since things went wrong with my family I have been cutting myself for 2 yrs. To me it is a way to show the pain I’m feelin inside. A way to realese all the anger inside me. I’m 14 now. I hate myself I was diagnosed with manic depression a year ago I’m a volunteer patient so I’m in and out of hospital like a yo-yo I’ve tried to kill myself 3 times and self harming almost every day I hate doing it but it’s like an addictive drug I have 4 counselors and I’m on heavy anti-depressiants but I purposly drink even though I know it makes me worse I’m a listed ex drug addict my family don’t look at me anymore my sister says she wishes I was locked away the only thing that keeps me going is my friends. I’m 14 I want a normal life now but all I can see in front of me is a life of misery and pain.
Memyself & I
Copyright, Anonymous
Suicide. I attempted it when I was fourteen with a bottle of Tylenol and then again at 18 with a bottle of Aspirin. I visited the psych ward for a week this summer. The summary of my life: Cutting, eating problems all of it. You are probably building a picture of me in your mind well I’m not that person. I’m not on drugs, prescribed or otherwise. I am a twenty year old directing a federal sponsered program and a full time honor student, a very productive member of society and I haven’t done anything self destructive in six months. Instead of self destruction, I’ve destructed my self. I’ve eliminated who I am and the passion and intensity that used to be me and gave that in for Jane Doe complacency and normalcy. God, I hate that word. Is there no balance between pain and stale, flat life? As in Samson’s riddle: Must honey be found only in the guts of a lion?
Why am I on This Page?
Copyright, Anonymous
Staring at all these pictures, fantisizing in my head about dragging a razor across my skin. I fell in love with it all a while ago. I was thrown in and out of counseling, I was watched all the time by parents and friends. I did my best to hide my cuts, finding more discret places to cut. It wasn’t enough, and I began starving myself. My mom forced me to eat, and I forced myself to throw up. I was now cutting and starving, and overeating and puking. I stopped cutting so much, and got myself caught in the middle of two eating disorders. It was easier to eat and throw up, because I’d get so hungry after a while. But I felt stronger if I could hold back from eating. so I would starve for as long as I could, then I’d eat a little something, go on a rampage, eating everything, and puke it all right back up. It was insane. And I finally stopped a little while ago. All my wounds are healed. My weight’s back up, and I miss it all. It’s weird to say. I look at the pictures on here and I just remember the way it felt to cut, to watch the blood flow out and drip down my arm. I remember the feeling I’d get, just staring deep into the red puddles. I’m happier now than I have ever been, but I want to go back. What the hell is wrong with me? I have this book and it has pictures I drew of all the cuts and burns I gave myself. It has information on this thing called “self mutilation” and writing and poems, and then it has my little food diary, and poems on that whole subject. I keep it, and I dont know why. It’s so important to me. I showed my room mate one time because I found out she was cutting herself a little. I started crying and showed her. I begged her not to do it. And she told me I was stupid because I still wanted to do it so bad. She said she could tell I loved it by my notebook. I hated myself for that. And I hate myself because I’m always going to miss it. I’m always going to be tempted, and I’m always going to give in once in a while. I’m always going to be embarrassed by it, because no one understands it. I’m always going to be asked what happened to my arms. What happened to my feet. What happened to my stomach. I’m always going to be the person I used to be, at least just a little.
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Copyright, Anonymous
Life in Gaithersburg, Maryland is pretty boring, nothing to do but sit around and go to the mall all day, smoke cigarettes and talk on the phone, but when you’re living in a place like this, suicide, for most people, is the answer. I started feeling suicidal, when I was about 11 or 12 (I’m now almost 16). My brother was bipolar too, so he was always yelling and screaming, his depression was worse, and I’d always catch him smoking pot. Back then I was the “good” child, I did all my homework, etc., because that would keep me from getting depressed, I wasn’t really ever popular until 7th grade, but even then I was still kind of anti-social, I would always think of suicide, but never acted. Then on the summer before 8th grade, my brother freaked out, he took a gun and started shooting at me, I was never shot but he put the gun to my head and shot it, but it was empty. He ran out of the house and went somewhere. I cried and cried I was so depressed I started writing suicide notes, but a week later I was fine. By this time I was changing, I was changing my style my friends, everything, but I didn’t know what was going on inside my head. All of 8th grade I would be asked “do you worship the devil” and I would just laugh, at the end of 8th grade, I turned for the worse, I met this guy and he got me snorting, and I loved it, I’d go to raves, smoke some pot do some heroin, and keep in mind I was 15, doing crack, herion, acid, shrooms, and it kicked ass. Before I could think I was starting to cut myself all over my legs, everything, I was so close to dying at times that I threw up, I never went to my mom, or to the hospital just to my bathroom and hoped I would die, but I would always live. Then a few weeks before school ended, a friend of my best friend killed himself, cause of death? Suicide by hanging. He had taken a rope and tied it to his fan in his room. I cried, but I just kept dropping acid and doing speed, and everytihng else, and you could see it on me too, I would wake up and look so messed up my mom would call me a zombie. Finally my one big trip was over, I woke up and went into the bathroom and for the first time in about 3 or 4 months I looked at myself in the mirror, I yelled for my mom and they took me to the hospital, I was there for almost 2 weeks, they let me out and put me in IOP, but I kept cutting myself. I would always cry, and cut myself daily, I carved words and song lyrics in my arms, and I am wiccan so I’d try carving symbols. One night I was sitting in my room and I cut too deep the blood shot out of my arm, I screamed and my mom brought me to the hospital, I stayed in the hospital for 6 months, and I felt so bad, so destroyed, I slept all day. I got word that my friend Ashley killed herself by OD’ing on drugs, it was like everyone was dying, so then and there I stopped cutting, stopped drugs and everything but it is still hard at times but I know I’ll get through, and when I look back I don’t regret any of it (in a way), because it made me the person I am today, a strong person. And I’m proud of myself now, that I am healthy.
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