Psyke.org

Hope

My Story

Copyright Hope

My name is Hope, and Hope is what has gotten me to the 27th year of my life. I never knew my real dad, but I was raised by my mom and the man I thought was my dad. He terrified me for as long as I can remember, isolated me, emotionally abused me, and then raped me when I was thirteen years old. I became anorexic and started cutting myself, but I kept faith that one day I would be free. The freedom did not come until I was twenty years old, when I left home. Now with almost seven years passed I finally decided to press charges. It is taking so long and my stepdad is out on bail, I have not even gotten through the pre-trial date yet. I have had a few more episodes of cutting, and I am afraid. I hate living in fear, but I hope through this site I can get some help. This is my story, the short version.

Personal Story

Copyright Hope

I know many people don’t believe you can fall in love during your teenage years, but I beg to disagree, because I’m only fifteen… And I really do believe I know exactly what love is. I hate to tell all those out there, though, who believe that love is always happy: it’s not. But anyhow, I went through a “rough” childhood, though others have had worse. I have a great mother, and pretty much a great family (don’t get me wrong.) But I was molested by my cousin when I was eight, then raped two years later. I “dealt” with it, I guess. I began to harm myself long before I began cutting. I started to pull out my baby teeth because it hurt and it bled, and it gave me a distraction from whatever I was thinking. I’d bite my fingernails to a bleeding point, over and over. It was just my way of releasing it. Then I met Tim.

And at first, it was lust. Then I began to truly fall for him. In a sense, he was the best and — unfortunately — one of the worst things in my life. The best because he made me open up, eventually. I held everything about those years (the molestation and the rape) inside until I was 13 or 14. Tim pried it out of me. But he also introduced me to cutting.

Until him, I’d never even heard of it. And even after I realized he was doing it, all I wanted to do was help him — not participate in it. But one night — the day after my thirteenth birthday — I got royally peeved. And I began to scratch my arm with a sewing needle. The first two times, I used a sewing needle. And I felt really… guilty afterwards. But as time progressed, I advanced to safety pins and scissors and hot wax/fire. I had no intention of using a knife. I suppose in the back of my mind, I thought that a knife would be “begging” for death.

Then, for Christmas of my thirteenth year, my brother’s dad gave me three pocket knives — a lock blade, a whale bone, and a collector’s item. The lock blade became my weapon of choice. It’s blade was jagged and tore the skin. That thing hurt like Hell, but sent a burning warmth through my entire body. And I loved it — and hated it.

I eventually gave my knives up to mom, who keeps them in her purse to this day (which means I can access them anytime I want to.) But going back to the jagged edge, now, would be pointless. I got ahold of a razor, after mom took away my knives, and I can never go back to anything else. Razors are the ultimate, in my opinion. They cut cleaner than any other tool, and they cut deeper quicker. They’re cleaner, and I keep an Expo knife (a razor inside of a handle) in my backpack at all times.

I’ve been cutting for over two years, but harming myself for longer. I want to stop, but it’s not so easy as just wishing it away. I wish people would stop telling me to stop. Whether you want me to stop or not, I’m not going to until I want to… And it’s going to take a lot longer than just a week to make me stop. So that’s my story, basic and unemotional as it is. I can’t really tell you how I feel about it, while I’m doing it, or afterwards. It just seems to personal. But there are the events, as they happened. Feel free to contact me at my email, or at my AIM: mortalsolace.

 

Permanent location: http://www.psyke.org/personal/h/hope