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RazorWrist

Locked Inside my Head

Copyright, RazorWrist

When I was 13, I wanted to die. I swallowed two bottles of asprin hoping never to wake up, but I did. It was January when that happened, and I did it because of how bad the christmas was. My parents were arguing, and on Christmas eve, whilst watching “The Snowman” I heard my dad beating my mom up. I wanted it all to end.

Two years later, just after my 15th birthday, and after my brother had moved out, I started to cut myself. The first time I did it, I just scratched “Death” into my left forearm. I liked it. I liked the pain, the release from my emotional anguish. I liked looking at it. It’s reddness. A few weeks later, I took a razor blade from the bathroom and cut my arm three or four times. When my friend saw them she asked about them, and I told her my cat scratched me. After that my SI escalated. It got to the point where I was doing two, three times a day. I did it at school a few times. Then, just six months after I started, I tried to slit my wrists. The razor was so blunt though, from so much use that I barely even got through the skin. I continued harming, then in the november after my 16th birthday I started seeing my boyfriend. He helped me through, tried to understand. (he doesn’t really, but I appreciate his efforts to) I haven’t done it in about three months, but urges to do it are still there. My home life sucks, I’m failing at school and I can’t see the direction my life will take, which scares me. I know that if my boyfriend ever left me that would be it. One last, deep, long cut, to end it all. But for now, I’m surviving and trying to live my life to the full. You never know when you’ll hear the blade calling your name.

Update: I am now nineteen years old and started cutting again a few months ago. When I first sent my story, I had stopped cutting, so now I know how disappointed everyone was with me. I started again because my home life didn’t improve. But it was different. Now, each cut is getting deeper and deeper. I know this will sound sick, but I like it. I like knowing how much damage I can inflict upon myself, because I know now no-one can hurt me as much as I can! I sit and watch my flesh seperate, and see the fatty tissue push to the surface and I know my sickness is still in there. I took an overdose the beginning of september 2005, because I wanted to get away from everything. I can’t deal with things like ‘normal’ people can. I know now, I won’t ever be better. How can you cure someone, and stop someone hurting themselves, when they like it? That person is sick. Abnormal. She doesn’t deserve help. I don’t deserve help. This is all I’ll ever know.

 

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