Psyke.org

Maree

I’m Not Like You

Copyright, Maree

My story isn’t like any of these. I’ve lived in a decent neighborhood, great family, excellent grades in school and all those other lovely things. I’m 15 now. In my junior year of high school. I started self injuring probably when I was 12, when my Dad, who I love very much, was diagnosed with cancer and was in and out of the hospital, making my home life crazy and unstable, while still trying to keep my grades up in my Gifted and Talented class, and that whole middle school social life going.

I didn’t actually start cutting until the summer after 9th grade. At the time I was experimenting heavily with drugs, and people. This girl, a girl who totally changed my views on a lot of things, especially my sexuallity, gave me a bracelet, a twisted copper wire bracelet that she had made for me. I don’t even know how I thought to do it, but I would wrap it tightly around my wrist and turn it, until my wrist was red and raw. It helped with everything. It was my punishment to myself, for all the guilt I had, for all the things that I had done wrong, or had been told was “dirty”. I think I wanted to be punished so bad, because my parents wouldn’t. They had and still have no idea of what I do. And I did things that I even knew where wrong.

The scratching with the bracelet got worse and eventually I broke down and wanted to cut for real. I went around the house one day when I was alone, looking for anything. I tried very hard with a knife, a steak one, one of those ones with the little wavy things on the blade. I can never remeber what they are called. But anyway, it didn’t work.

Eventually I found my art box and my exacto knife. It was so easy, so quick, and I actually bled. I tore up my left arm, the wrist, the forearm, both upper arms, ankle, stomach, hip, lower stomach, theighs and shins. All in that 1/2 hour.

Now I just wish I would stop. That someone would notice and just recognize how much pain I am in. I want help, but i don’t know how. So I still cover up my cuts, and make excuses. I’ve told one friend. I thought he could help. He just treats me like I’m so fragile now, like I’ll break. I don’t want to die. In fact, I just want to live, But not like you…

 

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