Psyke.org

Ashamed

My Story

Copyright, Ashamed

I don’t know why I started this. And I want to stop here and now, but I also want to be better, I want to wake and not have to hate very single inch of purple, scar covered skin. That is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever overcome, but for now I am just hoping to convince myself that one scar will make all the difference, I cannot go back to where I was, because before I know it one scar will have led to over thirty.

I used to visit this site for its pictures, sometimes they’d trigger me and I’d use them solely for that, I loved it for that while. Sometimes I’d do it to satisfy my need to see the blood. But that is all besides the point, I came here today to see the pictures again, and found you need a password. I don’t have one, and I wanted to find out how to get one. I frantically clicked through each section till I came across this text box and saw how easy it all could be. I begun typing and got to where I am now.

This is not a sucess story as I see no sucess in any of my SI, it has only now left me with more hate.

It begun — I don’t feel ready to type this because of fear of what people will think, and I don’t think I should include it. But then I remind myself I can send this out to whoever I wish, and I don’t know the others on this site, so that will not bother me.

The first time I remember self harming was in September/October 2001. I had come home from school, and it had not been one of the better days. I still don’t know if I can face up to writing this, I feel as though if I admit to this I have nothing left, I have left myself go. And I’m scared to do that. Thinking about it now I’ve stood back for a second, it doesn’t seem like so much of a big deal. And right now all I can think is that I don’t want to sound like everyone else, I want to have my own reasons for being here. But I don’t want to be alone at the same time.

So, at the time of my first S/H, I sat on my bed in tears. I was being harassed by some boys at school — it all just sounds so trivial now, though I still feel like it was me who was in the wrong, I am the one who should feel guilty for it. I doubt they ever even think back on it. I sat there that night with a safety pin in my hands, and all up my left forearm I marked in lines, and the word “slut”, for that was all I was. I remember thinking how ironic it was I’d done it with a ‘safety’ pin. Nobody noticed the next day. I wanted them to see it, I wanted to scream my pain, but it was like in a dream when you go to shout but don’t make a sound, no matter how hard you try, it was useless. That was how I felt. I wouldn’t let the word heal and for months after that I kept recarving it. That pattern went on for years, with scars appearing on my hands, wrists and arms. I progressed to smashing my wrists (each side, lef and right) against my wardrobe side, though it was more like my wall as it was built in. I began headbanging against the door and once knocked myself out for around five minutes.

During this time and last year I developed other problems (suicide attempts - tho I had been like that since 1999 — and easting disorders which have mildly attacked me since I was six, but flared up over the past couple of years.) and s/h just got worse and worse. In one night I gave myself 56 scars in one go. I was having panic attacks when I tried to leave my house without my razor (the objects got sharper and sharper till I walked about with just a blade), and couldn’t last for more than two days without cutting.

I was stealing my mum’s anti-depressant tablets that she wasn’t taking, and then taking days off school and just using these and some allergy pills I had to knock me out for around tweleve hours. I remember always carrying those pills with me as I not only took them over the day but at night as well because I could never sleep for more than an hour a night otherwise.

I remember one particular night where I got very drunk (I tell parts of this story a lot, it’s still much part of my life) and I was cutting myself with a butchers knife (nearest thing I could find) and began to tear my own hair out. The next morning I woke up with another (I had a bald patch already from not eating) hairless patch at where my fringe would be, and a black eye and a horribly bruised cheekbone that I had given me by punching myself. That night I passed out for three hours, and could not sit properly, let alone walk. I had a lot of bad experience’s that night which I won’t go into but still hurt me every day after knowing I can get myself into that state.

I still have scars which I have to deal with for the rest of my life, and right now I’m not sure if I can do that, I’m not even sure I can get by through the rest of my life without cutting. But hopefully as the days go by I’ll become less and less dependant, but only time will tell.

 

Permanent location: http://www.psyke.org/personal/a/ashamed