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Louise

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Copyright, Louise

It all started when I was twelve years old. I never really got on with my step dad much and he used to shout at me all the time, hit me quite a lot and generally be abusive toward me. He always had a problem with me. Every time he said something nasty I’d swallow it all, not say anything and walk away. This all seemed to go down an endless pit in my stomach.

But one night it had gone to far. I didn’t cry or anything as usual. I felt myself going all funny inside, I felt my rage building up, I felt myself turning cold. When he used to hit me or shout at me I’d shout back, or sometimes even fight back. I had satisfaction, but it wasn’t enough.

Then my “mates” turned against me. I found out they used me. I’d had enough. I’d split. When I got home all I felt was pain. To add to that my step dad started shouting at me again. I went to the upstairs bathroom and spotted a packet of razor blades. I took one out. I couldn’t take the razor out so I smashed it across the room. It worked. I sat there with this razor in my hand, I sat there thinking of all the times everyone made me feel so low. I looked at the razor, then at my arm, and slowly and hard dragged it across my skin. I felt total relief. I didn’t know why at the time. It just felt good. I kept doing it and doing it until I had about nineteen cuts altogether on my arm. I watched as the trickle of warm blood dripped down my arm.

A year later all I did was cut. Then my mum found out because one night I had a loose long-sleeved jumper on and I stretched. She saw a couple of fresh cuts I’d made. She then riddled me with questions and told everyone! I couldn’t trust her after that, so it got worse. Then she took me to see a psychiatrist. But they only made it worse. So I agreed to stop because of all the painful questions. I was just starting to rebuild my life. And I got a girlfriend. It all worked out. But two months later she committed suicide. I couldn’t cope so I started again. Then after that it was on and off. I’m now just turned fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday my step dad kicked me down the stairs, punched me and kicked me out. I was living rough for a couple of days until I remembered I left my window open. Now this is what happened today. I climbed through my window and sighed with relief as my step dad was offshore, my brother was sleeping and my mum at work. This was 7:40 a.m. I looked in my cupboard and rummaged frantically. I was desperate. My hand touched something… something metal… and wooden. I pulled it out and saw it was my air rifle.

I thought of all the times people made me low, thought of all the times when my step dad hit me and shouted at me, thought of the time when I was raped. I reached inside my drawer and found pen and paper and some metal pellets for my rifle. I scribbled ‘FUCK YOU!’ on both sides of fifteen sheets of paper and took one pellet out of its tin, put it in my gun, cocked it and slowly put the rifle to my head. “This is it”, I thought. It took me a couple of minutes, then I gripped the trigger. But as I pulled it my grip loosened a bit with the pressure and my hands were shaking, I squeezed the trigger but the aim wasn’t right. I remember feeling dizzy, I remember the blood pouring out of my face, then I remember stopping breathing, and laying my head down onto my pillow, then blacking out. I came around a hour later as I looked at my clock and it was 8:47 a.m. As I lifted my head up I felt this sharp stabbing pain, then I realised. I realised I wasn’t dead. I screamed out loud — a little too loud — “why cant i just die?”, and my brother heard me and called my mum. She came back and took me to hospital. My brother stayed and called me all the names under the sun and said “only freaks cut and injure themselves”. I replied coldly, “no it’s not, we aren’t freaks. Sometimes it’s because of small minded people like you who don’t care about anyone apart from themselves, and every scar tells a story, of what they have been through in the past or even now, so don’t you ever say only freaks do that. Because you don’t know what you are talking about!” Now here I am sitting at my computer, it’s now 2:13 p.m. I’ve just got back from hospital two hours ago. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t do anything but type. They never did take that pellet out as it’s so close to my brain. But now I’m thankful that I lived. I know that I’m a survivor. And you all are too! You are not alone. Before I shot I said “this is for everyone who self-harms, feels low, has been abused… This is for everyone”. I did it for you guys. I wanted to take my own life in hope of saving you guys. Stay strong people. I know I have to now…

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Copyright, Louise

This doesn’t sound like much compared to the other stories on this site, which does open your eyes to what others have to cope with, but it seems to play on my mind.

I’m 14 and last year the stresses of school and grades became too much.

I found myself fantasising about committing suicide off the roof of my school, which sounds weird but I couldn’t help it. I imagined how people would react and I thought they wouldn’t care.

I never attempted this and pills never entered my thoughts, but when I was doing my homework I looked at the pencil I was holding and repeatedly scratched at my arm until it was sore and blood appeared.

I now have a scar on my arm which is darker than my skin and none of my family know, I have told a friend but I don’t think she believes me. She just thinks I’m grasping for attention. I have severe acne on my back especially and I am on Roaccutane which can cause added depression. I wouldn’t class myself as depressed when I read these articles, but I feel that I’m not being taken seriously when I talk about being unable to cope. I’ve started my GCSE cause and I just don’t know if I can cope, I’m good at art and feel that I can express my feelings through it but no one knows that these pictures are from my own experiences. I think they’d think I’m crazy but I’m not I just can’t cope. I try to think about my future and I have highs and lows. I just hope it won’t come to some of the articles here. Reading them has helped me see what I’ve not been able to talk about.

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Copyright, Louise

I have been self harming now for 2 years and I feel like it is a part of me and without it I wouldn’t be me. I talk to my tutor at college but I can’t tell her everything. I hate to look at my scars and when I do I cut again to try to cover the scars up. I find it so hard to talk about yet people shout at me to tell them why I do it. I went to commit suicide before but got stopped. I’m pleased in a way and in another I wish I did die.

 

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