Psyke.org

Emily

My Story

Copyright, Emily

My name is Emily. I will be fifteen in a week and I have been self-injuring since I was twelve. I’ve read a lot of stories on here and I’ve found that I can’t really relate to a lot of them. I read how people have been raped or abused or some other kind of horrible thing has happened to them and that’s why they SI. Not me. I have no reason to. I have a great family. I’m an honors student with good grades. I don’t have guy problems. I have no reason to do the things I do to myself. I’m not even really sure why I started… but here’s my story.

It started in 8th grade. I used safety pins to carve letters and such into my ankle and into my waist. I didn’t really know anything about SI then, I just did it because it just felt right. It wasn’t an habitual thing; just every once in a while. Then I met a guy that I guess really got me into SI. He told me he loved me and everything and I fell for it… and him. We only went out for like four months but I was completely sure that he was ‘the one’. Obviously I was wrong. He moved away to another state, without telling me, while we were still together. I cried and cried and cried… and one day while I was talking to him online, our only method of communication, I picked up the safety pin and made lines across my ankle. Nothing big, but it was effective enough. I did this every time I talked to him. He moved back, but only after he dumped me. It crushed me and left me mentally unstable. I believe that I was really insane for the couple of months that followed that.

By the time all this happens, it’s the beginning of ninth grade. I wasn’t completely over him, but I was getting better. I was still using a safety pin to make tiny marks on my ankle though. I met another guy, and it didn’t work so I left him. Then ‘the one’ came back into my life… and everything got worse. I was completely convinced that I was happy, but really I was an emotional breakdown. I advanced from safety pins to scissors. Shortly after that, I found a box of razor blades and began experimenting with them. It was amazing how effortless it was to make deep, gushing cuts on my arms. I watched in awe as my blood flowed down my arm and onto my hand. I was still with ‘the one’ until I found out he had cheated on my with four other girls. The self-injuring got worse. It went from four times a week to four or five times a day. I would do anywhere from two to twenty lines on my right wrist and right arm.

A couple months after the break up, I slowed down a bit, but only because my blades were dull and I couldn’t get anymore blades. Finally I just stopped because the bluntness of it frustrated me. Only recently have I picked it up again. I started triggering myself by going to Self-harm websites like this one and after a while I became so triggered that I broke apart my dad’s razor blade refill and just sliced away at my arm. It resulted in ten lines. That happened yesterday. Today, I made twenty lines. Twenty very deep lines. I guess you could say that it all started because of ‘the one’ but I don’t think so. I think he just speeded the process up.

I know on here how a bunch of people put that they’re ‘struggling with this’ and how they ‘wish they could stop’ but to be perfectly honest, I like cutting. I like pushing the blade down and feeling that white, hot sensation shoot up my arm and make me catch my breath. I like watching the blood overflow from the deep, gaping wound I just made. It seems sick and disgusting in some peoples’ minds, but in mine it makes sense. It’s become such a part of me… that probably in twenty years I will still think of myself as a self-injurer. Sorry this story might not be very good… I don’t really write prose very often.

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Copyright, Emily

I am Emily, twenty-one years old and have self injured one time in twelve months. I was addicted for five years. I burned, cut, did wrist banging, pierced, tattooed, pulled hair, drew my own blood with needles and kept it in vials, scraped elbows on sidewalks, etc. I had a number of reasons I was doing it. Mostly confusion and subtle abuse over the years from too many people. Too much abandonment. Plus I was borderline personality, which in itself explains everything I did. But I’m recovered (yes, BPDs can recover and live a normal life). I don’t think about hurting myself but once a month or so. And I never think about it for more than a minute. Hardly no one knew that I did it and no one knows now. I am scar free because of being very careful. I hated the scar so much, the pain from that made me want to do it again. So i just did scar therapy (rubbing the scar a ton to get rid of the extra tissue, and putting vitamin e on it whenever I thought about it, up to twenty times a day). So if you are ashamed from your marks, do something about it and remember you can find release without hurting yourself. Good luck to all with their journey.

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Copyright, Emily

My name is Emily, I am fourteen and have been cutting for almost two years. I do not cut becuse I have been raped or molested or because my ‘daddy doesn’t love me’. That would be too simple. I do not cut because my boyfriend and I are in love but I can never trust him. To be honest, I do not know why. I feel dead and to see the blood I know I am alive. I know that blood runs through me. I know that I could actually die if I went too deep. For as long as I have been cutting only about five people I told, the rest could see it in the way I looked. The dazed look in my eyes. I know I need help but I don’t know how I can get it, I don’t know if I want it. I am not happy with myself but I want to be happy, if anyone is ever happy. Well I don’t know, I want to be understood.

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Copyright, Emily

When I was about 7 or 8 my mum was going out with a guy named Simon. He was a heroin addict. Well, I didn’t know at the time. I only found out recently.

But he’s my brother’s dad. He used to beat the living crap out of me. He beat me for saying something, he beat me for standing up to him. But the worst beating I ever got was because I made my communion. Because he was a hindu or whatever you call it. He hated the idea of me being Catholic (which I’m not, I just wanted to get loads of money, you have to keep in mind that I was only 8).

But Simon had this temple thing he went to every week. There was one particular guy there… well… he was weird. But he sexually abused me a couple of times. I never told anyone. I never felt a reason to tell anyone.

But then after a couple of years when I was 13, I was hanging around with a guy named Will. Well, he got me and my 2 mates drunk and off our face on cocaine, and he raped me and one of my mates. The other one was upstairs in the toilet.

But ever since then I’ve had nightmares and flashbacks and it makes my life a hell. I hate it.

But I started to cut. I’ve been SI’ing since I was about 5… I just didn’t know until recent years that I was doing it. When I was 5, up until about 3 years ago I used to bite myself, smack myself with hammers, smack myself into walls, I cut myself purposely with a knife once… But back then I didn’t know what it was, and I thought I was the only one who did it. But up until about 3 or 4 years ago I only realized what I was doing was SI. But after I found out what it was and that other people did it, I started to cut worse. I used blades and knives, basically anything that’s sharp.

I’m 15 now, and I’m still cutting. I regret it so much, I hate the scars. I use my blades most of all and I have scars everywhere on my body.

Please, if anyone thinks about cutting or thinks they are going to do it, or need advice on how to stop, please e-mail me at either address:

i_like_to_poke_badgers_with_spoons@hotmail.com or i_like_jelly_tots@yahoo.com

Feel free to add me if you want to talk as well.

Thanks for reading.

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Copyright, Emily

I am only a young teenager with so many I cannot control. I cut my body to feel alive. I need to feel the pain and see the blood to feel real. My life is fucking screwed. I have no where to turn. My life is totally messed up. So I do what what I do best: Cut my self deep and see my blood and feel the wonderful pain. Without self injury I’d be dead by now. Since I was 10 I have been wanting to die. I cannot stand my life and the only way to cope with the depression is to cut. It’s my life. cutting. It makes me feel alive and it relieves my stress. Everyone says I’ll be OK but they don’t know how I feel. They don’t understand me. People in school think I’m crazy and all my friends try to help but I think no one can help me now. I’d die if I couldn’t cut and see the blood and feel the pain. Cutting. It’s my life.

A Few Days Later…

I am thriteen years old and I’ve been a self injurer for three years. The SI started when one day I really wanted to commit suicide so I started to cut myself and realized I only needed to give myself physical pain to rid myself of my depression. Well that cutting did make me feel better but the only problem was that when the pain left me I became more depressed and then started to cut again. I still cut today and I hate that I have so many scars and marks on my body. I get embarrassed when people start to stare at the scars and cuts on my body. I have been trying to stop cutting for I don’t know how long. I’ve been in one hospital and my mother is ready to put me in one again soon. Every time I try to stop myself from cutting I end up doing more damage to myself than what I wanted to do. I can’t seem to stop cutting. The cutting makes me feel alive and happy and carefree. My grandmother says I’m just running away from my problems but that’s not the case. What I’m really doing is running away from my life and myself. I want to stop cutting but it just is too hard for me. It’s come to the point that all I ever think about is cutting; the feeling that comes with the cutting. I hate myself because of who I’ve become and I just wish I could die. I don’t even know who I am anymore. All my friends call me “The Gothic Cutter”, I hate it when they call me that but they never listen to me when I tell them that. My life is so fucked up. I can’t even look into a mirror without being ashamed about what I’ve become. My life is just fucked up. My life is a bitch to me. All I do in my life is think about cutting and cutting myself. I just wish I could die.

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Copyright, Emily

I guess I’m only writing this because I don’t know what else to do. I’m fourteen years old and I’ve been self-harming since I was about 11. I don’t really understand why I do it because I have a great family and lots of friends. In year 7 I found it hard to adjust to secondary school so I started to cut my arms with a compass and all my friends thought I did it for attention which made me even more depressed. Then I started to cut myself with a knife and I did loads more stuff like burning, scratching, throwing up, hitting myself. My friends have found out I do it and they know it’s a problem but they don’t understand. People think that if you take the knives away you’ll stop but you don’t because you don’t know how.

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Copyright, Emily

When I was young, my dad sexually abused me. I’ve been unhappy all my life until now but I can still remember it all and I wish I couldn’t. It’s horrible living with something that you can’t take away. I don’t really badly injure myself but when I get really down I tend to scratch my arm until it bleeds or I drink. Sometimes I can’t live with myself because my dad put me down so much, he touched me up, he tried to rape me and he even called me fat but the only reason I’m fat is becuase I comfort eat. I make myself happy by eating but when I eat I then make myself unhappy. I don’t see my dad no more but he’s still in my head, I have nightmares most nights and I can’t see myself being really happy. One day I might be but I don’t think I will any time now.

 

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