Psyke.org

Jessie

A Subtle Pain

Copyright Jessie

My father died when I was eleven. I was totally fine until about a year ago in grade eight. I started doing things unconsciously to hurt myself, like slapping myself and running into walls so I would get bruises. But I didn’t really think about those things much at all. One day I noticed my friends arms were all cut up, I hardly knew about SI and asked her what had happened but she just pulled away. When I realised what it was I was mortified. Why would someone cut their own skin for pleasure?

A couple weeks later I had a horrible day, my mom and I got in a huge fight, when I stormed up to my room I felt so cold, and alone and materialised. I started clawing at my skin and enjoyed the power and aliveness it gave me. Before SI I felt dull most of the time and I cried very often about my father. But when I started using a razor to slash my flesh I felt different. I usually couldn’t get through a day without cutting. I was so addictive and easy. Sometimes I would be sobbing and feeling out of control of my life and when I would cut everything became crystal clear and I just sat there, calm, relaxed, cured.

I cut myself for months before anyone took notice. I went to a friend’s birthday party which involved a sauna and I had a series of deep vertical gashes on my leg. All my friends were freaked out and I had to make up some stupid excuse about my cat. But all was good. I was doing OK. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?

I started thinking about suicide a lot. I hated my life. I had just started high school. I had made no friends, I wanted to experience drugs but it wasn’t happening for me. All my friends who attended different schools had new friends and smoked and all this stuff. I was thinking, whats the point of living when life is like this? And one night, when my mom was out I did some serious vertical gashes along my forearm. I passed out. Everything went fuzzy and I was convinced that I was dead. About an hour later I woke up, my mom wasn’t home yet and there was a lot of blood on the floor. I quickly made sure that I didn’t need stitches but there was a brownish stain left of the white floor.

I am currently still in my first year at high school and things are still going crappy for me. I still haven’t tried drugs and nothing is working out. I don’t understand how some peoples lives can be so easy and carefree while others can be depressing. I cry regularly and still cut a lot. I fell alone. There isn’t anyone I can talk to and I would like to have someone to talk to about these things. But I’ll just live it out. I mean things have got to be better sometime haven’t they?

The Different Girl

Copyright Jessie

I think perhaps I was born a cutter. I know that it’s scientifically impossible or whatever but that’s how I feel. I love cutting. Love it so much, once I loved it more than anything. I started when I was twelve, broke apart a disposable razor and made one little one inch slice on my ankle. I was stunned, didn’t even realise what the hell I did but I liked it. Liked the peace that settled over me in response to the simple little hack. It bled some, hurt some, but for some odd reason that made it better. Cutting became a game after that, hiding my cuts from my family and doing it whenever possible. Some people are alcoholics, stoners, sex addicts, gamblers… I’m a cutter. I cut everywhere, on my stomach, my wrists and arms, ankles and legs, hips, stomach, breasts, anywhere. And anything can be a weapon, I’ve used blades of course and I’ve burned too, but I’ve also used nail files, backs of earrings, staples, needles or pins, actual pens, scissors, sharp ends of tables, hand mirrors, and broken light bulbs. I stopped a few months ago when I burned myself on a space heater. I have to pray every day to my Lord Jesus to be stronger than the blade. I’m starting an organisation called S.Y.N. to aid people who are addicts like me and who need information on how to stop and what self-injury is. But sometimes I wonder if I really have stopped because I still like accidentally nicking myself in the shower or getting paper cuts. I’m scared. If I cut again I know that I will never get S.Y.N. started and I’ll eventually kill myself. Damn it, I need prayer, I need to get away form my horrible obsession. My life is centred around it now. Not doing it but researching it. Trying to stop it. I don’t know what to do, am I crazy for basing my life around a razor? It’s my addiction, obsession, my indulgence, and guilty pleasure. But I can beat it. I can be stronger than the blade. I can help others and stay cut free. But I’m scared. Really scared of myself.

Untitled

Copyright Jessie

I have been cutting since about a year ago. I’m fourteen. The thing that first happened was two of my friends started doing it. One of whom was my best friend. So I wanted to be cool. When my parents left to go to the store I tried it. I took my pocket knife and slid it across my wrist. I only did it one time. But blood still came out. For some odd reason I was very satisfied, just to be able to see my blood. To feel my blood run down my arm, I mean it wasn’t like blood gushing out, it was a small cut so I squeezed it to make more blood come out. I felt great and really cool. I looked at it all day. The next day I was walking in my room when I saw glass on the floor. The second I picked it up I thought I would look cooler if I had more marks on my arm. So I took it and slid it across my arm. At the time I didn’t know but the glass cut way easier than the knife. I had about five cuts but couldn’t see any blood so I cut harder. Then I brought it into the light. Just then blood started coming all out of my cuts and fast. My big brother was the only one home. I rushed downstairs to get toilet paper. It bled and bled for about five minutes then I just put a bunch of band-aids on it and put my bracelets over it so no one could see. Then my wrists started to sting. I took off the band-aid and saw the cuts. I thought it looked so cool. And it felt good too. I wasn’t so worried about if my parents found out about it after that. I still kept cutting after that, I don’t really have a reason except that almost every friend I’ve ever had were using me for something or were just pretending they liked me. Most guys hated me for whatever reason. And I had trouble with my weight. I was fine with the cuts on my arm I no longer wore my bracelets or so many. Then one day I was in CPR class when my friend said what’s that and pointed to my wrists. I got a little worried that she would tell someone but I just turned my head and avoided eye contact. Two weeks later the discussion of drugs and cutting came up. I was so angry the lady in charge acted like she knew so much about cutters and people on drugs but she had no idea. For about four hours I said everything I could to defend people that cut themselves and tried to explain it to her. She didn’t know that I cut myself though. Then I went to sit down with my friend and when I did she was like have you ever cut yourself, I think she was kidding but I said yes. She is my closest friend and I didn’t want to lie. She was asking so many questions I was overwhelmed and at the same time mad. People started to look at us like they knew what we were talking about. I asked her to please not talk about it and she hasn’t said a word since. I have tried to commit suicide one time by cutting my wrists but didn’t go through with it because my parents got home early. Then that night I talked to my friend and realised I do have people that care about me. I did do it a few times after that but I haven’t in about two months. If you think that cutting is cool you’re wrong.

Untitled

Copyright Jessie

I am sixteen years old and have been SI’ing for three years now and am trying to stop but the urge to cut is really hard to control since I am not dealing with my emotional problems very well. I just wanted to let everyone out there who has SI and are trying to stop is making a very good choice because not only do the scars affect your appearance, but they tend to bring you down. (Which I have found out.) Um, I guess I have nothing more to say really. Other than that I know what some people out there with SI are going through.

My Story

Copyright Jessie

This is the story of my self harm and the reasons behind it, or at least the ones I understand. It started about a year ago, maybe a year and a half. I guess the reason I started was I was so unhappy and I didn’t want to show it. I didn’t want everyone to see how pathetic I really was. So I stuffed it all down inside. It started to all build up. I’d get to the point where I felt like I was going to explode. Every now and then it would get better, fade away, but I was really just pushing it down further. I felt like screaming and shouting and tearing myself apart, so I did. I just took a knife and cut through the flesh on my arm. It felt good like I’d found something that would make it go away, a certain kind of relief. I was proving to myself that I had the power to do it. I had something no one else did. No one could be better at it than me, because it wasn’t a contest. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone but myself. It wasn’t a cry for attention, because I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want them to take away the one thing that was mine. It was simply my expression of self-hatred. I didn’t want to be me but I couldn’t be anyone else. I couldn’t say the wrong thing if I sat alone and didn’t talk to people. I couldn’t hurt people if I locked myself in little dark rooms. I couldn’t fail if I didn’t try. But when I cut myself I could be me. I could be whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to worry about saying too much or too little. I didn’t have to worry about what people would think of me. I could bleed and scream and cry and as long as I was locked in my little dark room no one would think I was pathetic, no one could see what I really was.

Living on the Edge

Copyright Jessie

I watch a movie about self-harm. Then I start to think my life is 10 times worse than the cutter in the movie. I immediately go to the bathroom and take a shaving razor from the medicine cabinet and bring it into the kitchen with me. I pick a knife from the drawer and break the plastic to capture the razor out of it. It seems ironic to do it with a knife, but I figured I would get better results with a razor. I press it to my wrist, and cut very gingerly at first, experimenting with it. Later that night, I am beat once again by my dad. I go to my room and take the razor from where I hid it. I take the razor and press it to the skin of arm and drag it across. Feeling brave, I apply more pressure and drag faster. After 5 cuts I am satisfied. I take a paper towel and press it against my bloody arm once. Then lay it on my night stand to forget it, but wake up in the morning to remember it.

I would like to hear from other cutters like me. I would like to talk to someone besides people who misunderstand us.

Untitled

Copyright Jessie

I have been cutting for almost three years. I am 16. I guess the first time that I cut was when I was at work. Alone in the store, and I had just had a conversation with this guy friend of mine. I had been raped a few weeks before, and hadn’t told anyone. But I needed to. I tried and tried and tried to get up the courage, but finally couldn’t, and he left. I sat there, alone. Hating myself for letting it happen (getting raped), hating myself for not being able to tell even one of my closest friends. I was feeling really violently angry with myself, and hit my wrist as hard as I could against the table. This really calmed me down, and when I saw the pair of scissors sitting there, I didn’t think twice. I raked it down the side of my hand and wrist. The cut was probably about three or four inches long, wasn’t deep, but bled a lot. I sat there, holding the scissors in my hand, a paper towel around my wrist, and caught my breath. It calmed me down, I put some music on, and a smile came across my face. It sounds stupid, but I felt that I had sufficiently punished myself, and that next time I saw him it would be different. I spent the rest of the day smiling, greeting people and doing my job like it was no different than any other day. Whenever I felt frustrated, or felt like I was going to cry, I just dug my fingernails into my cut. That was the first time. I guess after that, every time I failed, didn’t do something right or say the right thing to the right person, I would cut myself. Again and again telling myself it would be different next time. The way I was thinking though, I think was related to when I was raped. I consistently feel worthless, used,hurt, and a complete burden on all of my friends. I have pushed away some of the most important people in my life, all the while telling myself that its better for them, not to be around me and waste their time on me. My friend, one of my old closest friends, eventually realised what I was doing. He asked me about it (I was completely wasted at the time) and I was honest with him. It meant a lot to me, because he was the first person who realised, the first person who knew. It changed things for us, he was always treating me like I was really fragile, always giving me extra attention and time. I guess that’s what I wanted, but I couldn’t see why he would do that for me, it didn’t make sense. Why waste your time on someone as screwed up as me? He stopped talking to me about eight months ago and to this day I’m not sure why, but I’m sure it’s because he got sick of me and all of my problems. Cutting, to me, is simple. It’s a way of punishing myself, keeping myself under control. It’s a way of proving to myself that I’m not living in a dream, feeling the cut, seeing the blood, brings me back to reality. I screw up peoples lives, and I can’t take that back. But I can, even if they never see it or understand why, draw that on my skin. Draw the story. Do I feel like I need to stop? No. I don’t know where I would be without it. I don’t need to talk to some damned counsellor, because what the hell do they know. Where do they get off telling my how to live my life? My parents don’t know, or don’t care. I came home with a star carved into me leg. My mom asked me what it was. I told her I was drawing on my skin with a safety pin and went too deep, and she was like, OK. I don’t come from an abusive family. I’ve had a really abusive relationship, physically as well as verbally, but my family has been great, besides the fact that they either don’t realise, or won’t acknowledge what I’m doing. But I don’t really care, I mean, at least they are leaving me to myself. At least they grant me that one freedom. I don’t cut to kill, I cut to punish and to try to learn from my mistakes. When I have suicidal thoughts, that pushes me to want to talk to someone, but I get through it, I have only actually tried twice. Another entry here asked: When you look in the mirror, honestly, what do you see? What do I see? I see confusion. I see someone who is wearing black where everyone else is wearing white. I see someone who looks at the world in a slightly darkened way, but is accustomed to it, and sees nothing wrong with it.

 

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