Amanda

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My name is Amanda, I am nineteen years old. I guess you could say that I really started cutting this year. I was pretty “normal” up until my mother got back with her ex husband. He used to beat her and I and for some reason my mom is back with him after being away from him for about eleven years. Along with this I lost the love of my life. We were together for two years and we broke up. He didn’t like the fact that I was moving so far away from him and we had our problems to begin with so it was just easier for him to break up with me. At that time I decided I didn’t want to live anymore. I would rather die than have to live in a house that I didn’t feel safe in all alone. Travis was my world and now that my mother had this man that I couldn’t stand I didn’t want to be anywhere near her. I sought out counselling and of course they were quick to give me meds. My counsellor sucked. He pretty much told me to become a prostitute. I didn’t and I also stopped seeing him. That’s when the cutting started. I met Travis at my job to give him some of his things back. At that point I had been losing a lot of weight because I was so depressed that he commented on how skinny I was. He said I looked discusting and I need to gain weight. He also commented on a cut on my arm. He asked me if I had been cutting myself. At that point I had not done it but it seemed like such a good idea. About a week or so went by and I kept thinking to myself if I cut myself just deep enough to feel pain maybe I won’t want to die. I would talk to Travis on the phone every night and cry to him telling him how much I needed him. He didn’t care so one day at work I decided that I would do it. I took a push pin and made a few slight cuts on my arm. Nothing too big but enough to feel something and it felt great. Then I put the pin away and pretended like nothing happened. The next day at work I did the same thing. And for nce I could just be content. Not happy but content. I wasn’t crying or feeling lost. I felt OK. Then I went home and started using a kitchen knife so the cuts became bigger. I could no longer say they were cat scratches. People began to notice when I went out to clubs. I couldn’t hide them. Once my friends began to notice I knew that it was a problem. But it wasn’t a problem for me, it was a problem for them. I knew I needed to talk to someone about it so I told my mother. I went to see another psychologist. And I went once because I didn’t feel like hearing “now why do you feel that way” because if I knew why I felt the way I do it would be easy for me to stop cutting. Now I don’t take any meds or talk to anyone and I haven’t cut in a few weeks because my mother keeps a close eye on me. I’m trying not to cut because the scars are embarassing and it’s not something I’m proud of. But it’s so hard I just hope that one day I can look at a knife and not want to cut. I know there are so many people out there that are way worse than me but I am trying to help myself before it gets that bad.