Psyke.org

Black Roses

My Personal Story

Copyright, Black Roses

I am a cutter, this is my story. My addiction started within the last year or two, with minor cutting before that. I never thought I would get addicted. I started cutting when I was about twelve. I sit here now fourteen and better than ever in a way. This is my story.

I can remember the first time I cut myself. I was nearly twelve. My mother had been feeding my brother all her attention, and I couldn’t go to my dad for any affection because he was away in D.C. Silently, in the heat of day, I walked downstairs and into the kitchen. Pulling a stainless steal blade from the block I held it to my throat. There I stood, ready and willing to complete the first step of salvation. It was then I realized how much my friend (may be refereed to as sister) would miss me. Ever since, she has been one of the few things that has stopped me from going all the way, though I’ve still tried. I took the knife with me and went into the downstairs bathroom. I pulled the blade across the top of my arm by my elbow. This was in no means for attention as so many of you probably think. It was a way or releasing pain. The scar of my first cut still remains, even though it wasn’t even big enough to leave much of a mark.

I cut a few more times while I was there. Mainly because I was so depressed about moving again. I would be leaving everything, again. My sister, my friends, my school, all the things that I knew. My real cutting behavior started as I was half way through my twelfth year. I had moved to Delaware just before I turned twelve. I hated it. The house we started living in was of the value that my parents could afford twelve years earlier. We had bought it then and rented it out for the remaining years. The school sucked, the kids didn’t like me much. I was bullied a lot as well. Finally I made a small group of friends which I regularly hung out with and spent time with on weekends sometimes. Life wasn’t that bad. I had few but close friends, my grades were doing OK, and I was getting involved with a school program called TSA.

The first shocker of my life happened here. My friend “Twiggy” was sent to a mental hospital for testing. It was the longest week of my life. I spent every day locked in my room, sitting in my closet, scraping at my skin with a dental pick while crying my eyes out. This continued for several weeks after she got back. She didn’t stay. My parents finally confronted me about my odd behavior once my dad returned home from watch. I sat there, petrified at the end of the table, gasping for air between sobs, praying to god I might drop dead. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want them to see me. I didn’t want them to know. They scheduled me an appointment with a doctor who eventually prescribed a low dose of Celexia. My parents were convinced the matters were over now. I was informed later that we would be moving to Kodiak Alaska soon near the summer’s end. I told my friends and my shallow cuts got worse. The best was when I stuck the pick into my arm as far as it would go and jerked at it for a moment or two. It would create an intense pain, just enough to get the feeling out. The incisions would get deeper as my depression grew. Just before school let out I had my first overdose. I swallowed nearly ten times the amount of Celexia I was prescribed. My mom found out and was furious. I was broken hearted when I had to leave. Not only had I met my first love over the summer, I also would lose any chance of visiting my sister in Virginia, hanging out with my group, and basically working out my new life. I didn’t like it, whatever it was, but at least it was familiar.

My first year in Kodiak was pretty hard. I spent most of it struggling to keep a good average in all my classes and trying to make new friends. It wasn’t an easy year. I missed my friends so much my cutting hit its prime. I would cut almost every day, just to get rid of the feeling. I’d overdosed several times during the course of the year, it was no longer just a larger dose of antidepressants though. It was big drugs, like Codeine, and Vikodin, and several other prescription drugs I can’t remember. Once I took so much I was out of school and in bed for a week. Near the end a friend of mine was sexually assaulted by a beloved cousin one night while she vacationed. Not only did I take in the weight of her world, I held it in. I found a secret way of venting. An online journal no one else had ever heard of in Kodiak at the time. It became great help, especially as my journal was almost full out and I couldn’t find a sufficient replacement for “The book of Herbert”. One of my friends found a URL to it, and saw one of the things I had written. It wasn’t even about what had happened. It was about her boyfriend in Akhiok, a native village. It wasn’t a big deal, but she was cold to me for a while. As was a lot of others. Now I was starting to cut with razors. The cuts were deep and wide and numerous. The year ended with my first boyfriend, me in therapy, and the starting of my smoking. I learned something valuable here. The difference between a drug addiction and a cutting addiction. There was help with smoking, but not for cutting. Over the summer I went to see my sister. We went through the toughest challenge yet. It turned out that she was pregnant. She had been for the past six weeks. I was the first to know. I sat with her in the bathroom of a K-mart, huddled over the box and directions of a home pregnancy test. I stood, anxiously awaiting the results. That dreaded pink line was all we needed to ruin our summer together. Her parents weren’t like mine. If I had a kid, my parents would support me. If her parents found out, they would have killed her. Well they did. Not kill her, but they found out. Trevor and I sat outside with her younger brother while her dad yelled at her. Trevor and I both swore if he laid a hand on her things would be rough, as we both knew he was semi abusive. We were so close to taking care of it… We had the numbers of the best abortion clinics in town (if we weren’t going to tell her parents, keeping it was not an option). We told the father and he said he would pay for it all and give us the rides there and back… It was all so close… And yet so far away. The summer wasn’t quite the same after that. She had the operation done the day after I left. From then on I swore I would never have sex until I was married. High school started with a bang. I was struggling to quit smoking completely and control my cutting. My grades were crap at first. I hated all my classes. My friends were at each other’s throats and fought over me. They always put me in the middle. I was having love conflicts. It wasn’t bad enough having left a guy I really liked in Delaware, and another over the summer. (I had met Trevor, my sisters half brother for the first time. I was head over heels for him. So was he. But we were both too dumb to make a move.) It happened six more times in the course of this semester.

Now, the second semester is on its way, another series of challenges await. A whole new chapter to my life is about to be written. Here I sit, a C average student, suicidal, boyfriendless, junior varsity, confused, and struggling to control my smoking, drinking, and self harm habits… I will say this again… I am a cutter and this is my story.

 

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