Psyke.org

Terise

My World

Copyright, Terise

I am fifteen years old right now and have been cutting since I was about eleven or twelve. I’ve been in counseling since I was twelve years old. I wanted to share my story because I’ve read many stories on here and everyone is like ‘I want the courage to stop’ and things like that. I’m here to admit that I love to self mutilate. It’s something that I don’t wish to stop and probably won’t be stopping anytime soon. If anybody wants to contact me my e-mail is i_have_bright_eyes@hotmail.com

I started cutting the summer after sixth grade. It went on for a year before anybody knew about it. So when I was in seventh grade, I went to tell on myself. I regret this every time I think about it. But I went to my school counsellor and wrote it on a piece of paper. She then called my parents and my dad came to school. I will never forget the look on his face: Worried, mad, confused. I hated it. It was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry. But he took me home and we waited for my mom. My dad and I just sat in the living room in silence. I remember seeing her car driving down the dirt road at about 85 mph. She flew out of the car and ran inside. She left the car running. She ran to me, sitting on the couch, and hugged me. She was crying harder than I had ever seen her cry and I still haven’t seen her cry that hard. She was doing that embarrassing cry where she snorted and blew spit bubbles. I remember thinking ‘ew, I’m getting mom’s spit and boogers all over me’. But then we had a long conversation about why. My dad just quietly cried and that hit me harder than anything.

I began counseling after that and soon the suicide attempts followed. I began to cut every day. I once carved ‘hail satan’ into my legs. I also carved my current boyfriend’s name onto my leg, but that is all the words. I didn’t want any definite evidence for anyone to know.

Soon the kids at school found out and began making fun of me for it. What a thing to bully someone for. For feeling like shit and wanting to die. I became extremely embarrassed about it and would burst out crying when anyone would acknowledge my cuts or scars. It made me feel sick. I began resenting everyone at school and just hating them. Of course I became gothic and was also bullied for that. My parents and everyone at school seriously wondered why I hated them all. Were they really that ignorant? I soon became the slut, the druggie, and the troublemaker. It disgusted me. I was a virgin. I had never done any drugs in my life. I guess I deserved the title troublemaker but they really didn t need to make fun of me for it. I was a young preteen. What preteen doesn’t get in trouble?

I remember every trip to the hospital that I have ever had. My parents would be crying. Then they d get mad. They’d say ‘do you like seeing us like this? Do you like to hurt us?’ Then my mom would go outside for a cigarette and not come back for about an hour or two. My sister was always just silent except for once. I was in a hospital where the rooms were just separated with curtains. The guy in the next room was in great pain and was grunting and groaning and making the grossest noises in the world. My sister and I burst out laughing.

I remember when I was in eighth grade and sent to the mental hospital. I had just switched schools because I was getting into too much trouble at my school. It wasn’t my fault, though; I was on Paxil and it made me insane. So when I switched, I was on bipolar medication. The thing is, I’m not bipolar. But nobody knew it. I was on Zyprexa and it was making me extremely depressed. So when I switched schools, I didn’t know how to handle myself. I had no friends and had no idea how to make friends. So during a visit with my counselor, I was trying my hardest to hide my sadness and I just burst into tears. It was too hard to hide. He decided that I needed to be hospitalized for my own safety. My parents were hesitant to agree but soon did. I was a voluntary patient in the mental hospital. For the first week or so, I talked to nobody. I would burst into tears every five minutes, literally. I didn’t want to live. That is the saddest that I have ever been in my whole entire life. I had no friends, I was in a fucking mental hospital, I felt disgusting. I was so different from everyone that I knew. I got better soon because the hospital figured out that I’m not bipolar so they took me off the Zyprexa and I got instantly better. I soon met this guy there that was my very first love. When it was time for me to leave after a month, I cried and cried. I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend.

It is now two years later and I am no better. The hospital, in a way, actually made me worse. Seeing all the scars and cuts of the other patients there actually made me feel like a pussy. I started my heavy-duty cutting after being hospitalized. It made me more depressed because I now had to deal with the real world. In the hospital, I was protected. In the hospital, I was sheltered. In the hospital, life didn’t exist.

Cutting is magic for me. I never want to stop. The feeling of the pain inside your skin is seriously orgasmic. Seeing the blood pouring from your cut is like nothing else in this world. I love blood, but only my own. (For some odd reason, I can’t handle anybody else’s blood. I pass out at the sight of it.) I’m not any better, but what is better? What is healed? In my world, I am healed. But in your world, I am sick. Your world and your opinion does not matter in my world. I am perfectly fine in my world. I like to cut myself. In fact, I love it. I never want to stop cutting. I never plan to stop cutting. I don’t want to die so much as before. But really, what is wrong with wanting to die? You may think that there is something wrong with it. But that’s your world. In my world, I am perfect. In my world, there is nothing wrong with me. In my world, I am accepted for being fucked up.

 

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