STORY ONE
I Self-Injure
I self injure. I've always done it, ever since I can remember but it wasn't
very obvious because I would hit my head against a wall or hit myself or something
that didn't leave a mark. It then escalated to scratching with needles until
I punctured my skin. The first time it was supposed to be a homemade taboo,
but I discovered that it didn't hurt and I actually felt better afterwards.
I always scratched my arms and my legs with needles because I was afraid to do it with a knife because I thought it would hurt. Now I do it with a knife and it feels good. I like to see my blood and afterwards I admire my scars.
The cuts aren't deep or serious, they look like cat scratches. But I am afraid of it becoming worse. I feel like a junkie. I have to do more damage to get the same effect. I also think about it constantly. It can be a good day or a bad day, whatever, and I always think about it, and want to do it.
I like doing it. I don't mind what I am doing right now, I just don't want it to get worse.
© Maru
STORY TWO
It's Hard
I have been self harming for 4 years and I hate doing it. I got thrown out of home for it because my foster parents said I was being petty and immature for doing it. It's hard when there is nobody else to talk to or anyone else to understand. I hope that everyone who reads this finds it in themselves to stop what they are doing and sort themselves out.
© Anonymous
STORY THREE
My Story
Hi all! My name is Mena. I began self-injuring 2-3 months ago. To be frank,
after reading some stories of the kind of things people do to themselves, I
began to think that I could hardly call myself a self-injurer. I had problems
- well doesn't everyone from time to time? But all my friends and classmates,
they dealt with their problems by drinking/smoking/drugs etc. I never wanted
to do that; I never wanted to get involved in anything like that. I injured
myself instead. The problem with me is that I'm a perfectionist, or to put it
differently, an overachiever. I always wanted to be good at everything - so
I never tried things where I knew I might make a mistake. This made me a very
withdrawn reclusive person. A couple of months back, I got into an unpleasant
situation, which laid the basis for what was to come. I didn't look up during
that time - I accepted that life was against me, and the very fact that I admitted
defeat so quickly angered me even more. I began to injure myself, first as punishment,
later because I liked to see blood and I liked the feeling. I always felt better
afterwards. I used to use sharp points (needles, pins, nails, scissors) and
I would press these into my skin and then drag them rapidly across my skin and
watch myself bleed. The worst thing is the scars, but that's the only bad thing
there is (I think so anyway). I stopped for a while, but now if I get depressed
or in a situation in which I feel I can't cope then I start again. Some of my
classmates noticed my scars (by chance). They are afraid for me; at the same
time they think I'm crazy. But they wouldn't understand anyway. I have managed
to bring my SI under control, but only temporarily. I hope you can do better
than I did! God bless you all.
© Mena
STORY FOUR
Me and Self-Injury
My name is Penny. The first time I can remember self injuring, I was around
8 or 9. I stood in front of out mirror and put a belt around my neck, pulling
it tighter and tighter till I could see my reflection fade away, soon I passed
out, and I have been lost in the mirror ever since After that, I moved onto
cutting myself, and just 4 months ago, I gave myself a second degree burn -
of course I found a story for all of it. But I couldn't find a story when I
overdosed on pills one night. To this day, I do not know if I meant to kill
myself of if I just wanted someone to REALLY look at me. I've had a lot of loss
and pain, and been places I hope to never see again. I have a past I wish to
lose. I am 25, with a husband and a beautiful son, yet I still sit up every
night fighting myself with the help of my wonderful therapist, I have calmed
down on the SI for a few months now. Can I stop? I don't know - But I will try.
And if I can, then you can, too.
© Penny
STORY FIVE
My Story
I don't know why I am writing this, but I am. I am 15 years old and live in
a small town in Texas. My father was a wife-beater, I am an introverted, deeply
depressed young man I look back on my life, and I never see a time when I wasn't
depressed. But my depression really took hold of me about age 12. It wasn't
until then when I truly realized that I had no friends. I would walk from class
to class alone; just wishing that I would collapse in the hallway, dead. Maybe
then some of the kids in school might have actually noticed me, by tripping
over me. The older I got, the more complicated and multifaceted my depression
became. As I grew, I never had a girlfriend. To this day I still hadn't. Being
alone brings depression to an all-time low for anyone, and I was almost always
alone. But even when I wasn't, I thought about how alone I was in life. When
I turned 14 I discovered the joy of cutting. I was in Life Sciences the day
of our frog dissecting and I noticed a huge bottle of hydrogen peroxide next
to a large jar of pins that had just been sterilized. I stayed late to help
our teacher clean up, and during the process I slipped a couple of needles into
my pocket. Later in the day, during P.E. to be precise, I was participating
in a physical activity which I didn't particularly care for, so I was thinking
about how crappy my life was when I started to sit down. When I did I drove
one of the t-pins 2 inches into my calf. Instead of the reaction that most would
have, it had somewhat of an intoxicating affect on me. The pain took over my
mind and sent me into a euphoric state. From then on I was hooked. I have been
cutting since. The most common things that I do are to impale myself with t-pins
and/or I'll take an electric carving knife and turn it on and run it up my arm
sideways (this puts many tiny cuts in perfect formation on your arm. But cutting
is the only thing that takes me out of this sh*t hole of a life. For a moment
I escape from the emptiness, the isolation, the depression, the fits of crying,
and all of the other things associated with depression. I used to write about
my depression, I still do but sometimes ill write specifically about cutting.
© Gordon
STORY SIX
Me and SI
OK, here goes nothing. I'm 14 years old, and the first time that I cut myself
was in January 1999. Fairly recently. Then it was small bloody scratches with
a normal Sewing needle on my left forearm. My mother noticed and I blamed it
on my dog jumping on me. I stopped then and only recently am I doing it again,
only this time it is worse. The needles seemed a bit pathetic, so I moved on
to the razors, I'm not old enough to buy the legendary Wilkinson Sword ones,
so I have customised a normal one buy taking the plastic of and just having
the blade. It doesn't hurt me, and I have developed a strange addiction in doing
it. I did tell my friends but not a lot of good that did me! One of them is
bulimic (like myself) and the other is permanently on a mission to self destruct
(like myself). The three of us are truly messed up! So in terms of abuse I am
suffering from: Self harm Bulimia and if I can't make myself sick then I will
stop eating for a month.
© Rhian
STORY SEVEN
My Suffering
How rightful it seems to hurt myself. I've hurt so many people, now it's justice
I do it on me. But not just because of that... I have to hurt myself to let
out the mental pain. When someone hurts my feelings, I have to let it out through
pain. When I screw up I have to punish myself. I do it since I know about me.
I abuse myself just as I get abused or as I abuse someone else. I do it for
the guilt, the terrible demon of guilt. I do it for pain that they cause to
me. I do it for the anxiety in my stomach. I get rid of the pressure that way.
I tear myself apart any way I can. My cuts are deep and painful, for I choose
no weapon - either an old, but dear razor, broken glass that causes infections,
needles that rip the skin, or a new knife dad bought. I bang my head against
the wall, but "all the walls I strike my head against are the ones inside my
head." I get drunk to death and throw up for days. I burn myself. I kill my
lungs with cigarettes, and kill my stomach with alcohol. I'm a coward and I
can't kill myself, so I slowly destroy myself. That is self-abuse for me. Destruction.
But also calmness. I get very calm when I hurt myself. The diagnose said Immaturity
emotionalis. They told me that at the army testing. I won't go to the army.
They said I was crazy. They saw my scars, all over my body, most of them on
my belly. Who cares... As long as they hurt it's OK... Anyway, I've rambled
nonsense long enough. If anyone wants to contact me, I'd be more than glad to
reply. I like e-mail. Also, if anyone wants some stuff I write about, called
SUIZINE, please write.
© Suzine
STORY EIGHT
My Story of Pain
SI is a confusing thing. I made my first cut in February a couple months ago.
It was one day after school. I was on my bed and found a belt. I wrapped it
around my arm (my elbow) and squeezed it. There was this little metal thing
on it that cut into my skin. I liked the pain. It cleared my mind. I wanted
more... I wanted blood. I squeezed the belt harder and harder. I got no
blood, my skin turned purple and red rose but didn't break the surface. Then
I thought, A knife, I could use a knife. I walked out to the kitchen like a
zombie. I felt like I had bounced out of reality and fell onto my own planet.
I went over to the drawer where the knifes were kept. I opened it up and
reached for a big pointy one. I picked it up and stared at it in the dim
sunlight flowing in from the window. It was nearly 4:00 PM and I was home
alone. Fear worked its way up my throat. I gulped it back and put the knife
on my upper arm. It was cold. I pushed it into my skin, but not deep enough
for blood to come. I pushed harder until bright red blood blossomed into the
air. I stared at it and it was weird. I had wanted it but then I didn't. I
was confused. I made ten more cuts and did it again the next day. Then that
day I broke down and told my Mom. Now I'm in therapy with the threat that if
I do it again I'll be off to the hospital. The depression comes back though.
So sometimes I scratch myself but it's never as filling as feeling the knife.
It doesn't matter that I have a good life, family and friends. Depression
lingers, it's just there.
© Stephanie
STORY NINE
Jut a Thought
Today at one point I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror.
It was like she was looking directly through me, and I looked into her eyes.
An eloquent but wordless conversation started to happen between me and her.
It was as if she was asking me something she'd wanted to ask for a long time:
Why do you hurt me?
and I didn't know the answer.
© Chelsea
STORY TEN
My Story
If you are reading this, you know the pain before the cut and the evercalm
after. I am 31, married with a beautiful daughter. I have a great job and husband.
Wonderful life, right? I grew up in a loveless, abusive family where no words
were shared, and love was shown by hitting, swearing, and resentful remarks.
My mother should not have had children, or fish for that matter. I am bisexual,
depressed because of this, unhappy with being a bad mother, to my perfectionist
ways that creep in to every facet of my life. I should be happy, I am trying
not to be a "cutter" any more, it is hard and one step at a time, but I am trying.
God bless
© Cons
STORY ELEVEN
PLEASE USE CAUTION ***MAY TRIGGER***
I first remember cutting while I was in high school. I think I was 16 or 17
(give or take a year or two). I don’t remember why I started, but I think that
I initially began cutting for attention from my boyfriend. He was my first love
(or so I thought), and if I remember correctly he was cheating on me. I remember
the feeling of loneliness and abandonment and not wanting to lose him, because
I’d never find anyone to love me (what a misconception that was)! I had such
low self-esteem. Anyway, I was in a home-EC. class and the 7th period bell had
wrung. For some reason I was the only one left in the room. I took a pair of
scissors and sliced across my face (the scar is very faint…thank God). I remember
telling the nurse that I was holding scissors and sneezed. Anyway, I told my
boyfriend, and anyone who asked, that I was in a fight. I don’t remember cutting
again until I was in my early 20s, while in college.
The next time I remember doing a self-injurious act I was 22. I had been in
love with this guy (one of my best friends), and we had kissed once or twice.
He had a long distance girlfriend, but he didn'’t seem to care when he was kissing
me. Anyway, I was at his place one night and I asked him if he would get mad
at me if I kissed him. He said (oh I remember this so clearly), “No, but we
shouldn’t.” Something inside of my just clicked and I was so angry. I left his
place, but I had to wait for my ride to get there, so I sat on the step. He
followed me out trying to ask me what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer him.
I just remember scratching this one spot on my knee over and over and over with
my nail. He tried to stop me and I hadn’t even realized that I was doing it.
His actions only infuriated me more and I just scratched and scratched.
Other than that I can’t remember too many SI acts back
then. I do remember that I used to run a pin down my arm in the same
spot over and over until it bled. I don’t remember doing much of it
until I was 28 and moved across the country with my (ex) husband. That
was when I first got into using knives, razors, nails, pen
caps…basically anything that got the job done. It was always after an
argument when my feelings were so jumbled and I was frustrated. I just
couldn’t control my emotions and I would be so filled with this jumble
of emotions that it just drove me insane. The cutting helped me feel
and at the same time made me numb.
I don’t know why I really started cutting…like I said it
started out as an attention-getter. I have been through some traumatic
events in my life. One of my boyfriends physically abused me. I have
been raped too many times to count and sexually assaulted by a family
member. I had a very functional family life growing up. My parents
are still together. Neither drank or swore or fought. I had a very
loving family. Unfortunately, I didn’t appreciate that until much later
in life and I put them through hell.
I have had PTSD and depression, but have pretty much
worked through that. I have been diagnosed with social phobia
(generalized anxiety disorder) with panic attacks and agoraphobia. I
was taking Paxil, but I am now on Celexa, which seems to be helping
some. For a long time I was just so empty of anything good and loving.
I felt to alone and hopeless (“alone in a world full of people.”) I
hated life and everything in it. I have never attempted suicide, as it
goes against my religious beliefs, but I have prayed to die and tried to
will myself to just end it all (I’m glad that I didn’t).
I am in therapy and have been for a few years. I am
slowly, but surely, learning to use other coping techniques instead of
cutting. I cut occasionally, but as of today (June 2002) I haven’t cut
in about 2 months. I guess my purpose in telling my story is to give
hope to those out there who cut. You are not alone, and it can (and
does) get better. We just have to learn to love ourselves and reach
out.
© PharieQueine
STORY TWELVE
My Story
I first started cutting 2 years ago, but it just occured to me that I've been
self-harming most of my life. When I was little I used to slap myself, bang
my head against walls or bite my hand to stop me crying. Strange. 2 years ago
my dad had a nervous breakdown and was diagnosed as clinically depressed. I
couldn't deal seeing him like that. Watching him cry and act totally defeated
broke my heart. I've never really been a happy child - introverted, quiet, chronically
shy as a child. I'm disgusted by what I was, I'm louder now, I care less what
people think of me. I just hide the real me. The real me who cries herself to
sleep most nights, who cuts her arms, legs and stomach, who hates herself so
intensely.
Cutting helps, I don't know why. At first it was just when I felt like I was
going to explode through sadness or anger. Now, my days don't seem normal if
I don't cut. Sad.
I've told a couple of friends but they never thought it was serious. They
don't ask how I am anymore, they don't seem to care. I hate them for it, but
I don't let them know it. My boyfriend knows too, I know it upsets him and he
wants me to see someone (I'm not ready, I have enough stress with A-Levels)
but smuttiness when he sees me cuts there's no reaction. Then I think he doesn't
care, and I cut myself again. Its a vicious circle and I'm well and truly trapped.
© Helen
STORY THIRTEEN
Me and SI
Well I'm 15 years old and I've been cutting since January 2001, So I just
started. Well growing up wasn't that bad for me I lived in a house where we
were never really there but we always hung at the neighbors. My mom and dad
were nice and my brothers and sisters were cool too, but when I moved to another
school we all just seemed to separate. Well in November I met up with this guy
and he was great I liked him a lot and one night he raped me, well I never told
anyone, and I just started to think about it one day after I got in a fight
with my friends and I read an article about a girl who cuts and I thought hey,
why not?? so I did and its very addicting. I had to tell my mom because the
cuts were getting deep and I couldn't say that the dog did it, so I told her
and now every week she does checks on my arms and legs, and it sucks cause she
always finds new cuts and yells at me. I told a few of my friends, wow big mistake,
they call me scissors now. It re! ally sucks, depression is horrible, especially
when you have to hide it because you cant let anyone else know that you aren't
OK.
© Staci
STORY FOURTEEN
My Story
I was 15 then, and it was a typical hot, humid Midwestern summer afternoon.
My mother and three siblings had gone to the pool, and I had stayed home, complaining
of a headache. Sometimes, I wonder, if she would have left had she known what
was happening inside me. On that day, for whatever reason, years of depression,
anxiety, supreme 'highs', darkness, and trying to hide it all, finally came
to an abrupt standstill. I remember my mind feeling so numb as I wandered into
the kitchen to the medicine chest and pulled down a bottle of aspirin, and a
bottle of ibeprophen. I can remember thinking to myself, one pill for every
day that I have lived like this, that there was nothing else left to do, there
was just no way I could continue to be this way...to feel this way....And so
I swallowed 35 asprin, and 12 ibeprphin. I think the only reason I stopped there
was that I was crying so hard I could not pick up the glass of water anymore.
I remember too well all !
the sensations that followed in the next eight hours, and really, for the
next two weeks. My ears ringing, and eventually going deaf completely, the whole
house seeming to spin, uncontrollable stomach cramps, seeing stars, eventually
blacking out, twice. My father coming upstairs, dragging me downstairs, not
being able to hear what he was saying as he stood in front of me, portably screaming,
shaking an almost empty bottle of aspirin, and eventually being allowed to go
back upstaris. I was very very lucky. Obviously I did not succeed in my attempt,
but I did go permanently partially deaf in one ear, and never have regained
the complete use of my left arm past the elbow. Once, I asked why they had not
taken me to a hospital, and was told they could not get me to tell them what
I had done.
I am 23 now. That was the first of three suicide
attempts. The last was two years ago to the day, and I am praying that
I can fight this thing hard enough to avoid a fourth attempt. There is
a little saying that has come to mean something to me over the last
year: This too, shall pass. I know as well as anyone else who has
found themselves on the brink of self destruction that this saying does
nothing in the tidal wave of pain, and guilt, and hurt, and insanity
that always seems to be just on the other side of the horizon. But you
have to grasp to something. And that saying, along with my husbands
child, whom I have come to love more than I ever thought humanly
possible, is what has kept that darkness(for lack of a better short
description) at bay long enough to get help. I hope that in ten years,
I can look back at this time in my life, and say that it was worth it.
© Heather
STORY FIFTEEN
My Story
My story begins in the fall of 2000. I was feeling very
down and depressed. I had so much pent up emotions inside I wanted to
lash out. So, one day I did. I was sitting on my bed, and I saw a knife.
I lashed out a the closest person- me. (I wouldn't ever hurt anyone
else.)So I cut myself, and before I realized it, I had 10 more on each
arm.
I started doing it every couple of weeks. Then I was
caught.
But I quit therapy and my medication. My parents think I'm fine. But they
don't know that I started again. All of my cuts are deep,I'm cutting every day
now. Most of them needed stitches. A couple were almost .5" deep. I came from
a regular upper middle class family, I don't know where my depression came from,
I think that's part of why I do this. Is to punish myself for feeling so bad,
when I have no reason to.
© Kyle
STORY SIXTEEN
My Experiences
Long before any of these doctors and therapist got involved in was a long
trip to begin with. I have been depressed for only god know how long. I think
it runs in the family, so I might have had it all my life. I can't remember
the last time I was truly happy. But any ways. When I was twelve and thirteen
I first turned to cigarettes and alcohol, then added on weed, then finally ending
with adding on coke and acid. They were some of the ways I tried to deal with
my depression. I also self mutilated by means of cutting and burning about about
a whole three years before I met any doctors. Then this is where my story starts.
May 29th:Today was my first visit with a doctor! Dr.Nili put me on 25 mg.
of Zoloft.She wants to up the dosage to 50 then up however much is necessary
May 30th:I wrote a good bye note to my friend Nikki and told her not to read
it till she night time.She went against my word, read the note, and went to
the guidance coucilor. Me, Nikki, and Ms.Porter talked for about a half an hour
then she decided it was best if I went into a hospital.Ms. Porter drove me to
Tri-county where I met with a bunch of people including Dr.Nili (again).After
a few hours of waiting and talking to people there I was off to the hospital.When
I got to the hospital I did all the paper work and was given prozac.I'm not
exactly sure the mgs.
June 6th:The Celexa is making me sick.They change me
back to Zoloft 100 mgs.
June 8th: I am discharged from First Hospital. June 10th: Just about 24 hours
after I was released I had a little problem.
8 p.m. (Approx.)-I overdosed on 150 tylenol, my zoloft
(about 10 pills)& a couple 600 mg. Ibuprophen.
8:30- I get sick and throw some of it up.
9 p.m.- my parents find me in my in my room and ask me where my zoloft is.I
say I don't know.As they are walking down the stairs, I just blurt out that
I took them.Then I tell then that I took the other pills. I was still conscious,
so they drove me to Marion Community.
12 p.m.- They have already have a gown on my top have, have drawn blood, have
a IV started, and have gotten the facts.They give me charcoal and I drink one
bottle, but throw it up about 10 mins. later. They say that I threw it up too
quickly.I try to drink another bottle, but I get about half way through it and
throw it up.
1:30 (Approx.)- They insert an NG tube and start pumping my stomach.They also
take more blood to check the toxin level of tylenol.It was dangerously high.They
talk to me and my parents explaining that there was nothing more they could
do at the hospital.They would have to air flight me to Hershey Trama Center
to get the antidote.
3:30- I am transffer to a ambulance that takes me to a helicopter pad.I spend
about 45 mins. traveling in the helicopter. When I arrive my parent aren't there,
but they are on their way.They have a 3 hour drive.They give me the antidote
and hope for the best.They continue to pump my stomach for approx. 24 hours.Then
they remove the NG tube.I will have to stay in bead for a while and have a liquid
diet.Finally I am allowed to get up to go to the bathroom, and I can eat normal
food.I have about 5 million doctors and students come and talk to me and ask
me a million questions over and over again.They tell me I have a choice.I could
go back to first hospital, go to Hershey, or go to Gisenger in Danville.I chose
to go back to first hospital, because it was closet to home.
June 11th:I am transported 3 hours by ambulance to First hospital.During this
stay I was put on Suicide precaution a few times and I believe I was physically
restrained.The continued my zoloft, but added remeron,4 mgs. of Zyprexa, and
lithium.
July 4th:-I was released form First Hospital.I was
suppose to leave approx. 5 days earlier, but due to mood swings my
discharge was prolonged.
August 6th:- After a fight w/my mom and her finding out I was not taking my
meds.I lock myself in the bathroom and start to cut myself.My mom proceeds to
break down the door, because I wouldn't open the door.I walked out of the hose
and continued down the street to Nikki's house.My mom called my therapist and
she says to go to CMC.My mom picked me up at Nikki's house and takes to to the
hospital.The hospital transports me to First Hospital.
August 10th:I signed a 72 hour notice, but they
threatened to 302 me so I took it back a few days later.
August 15th:-I am taken off Eskalith (aka:lithium)and
put on depakote.During this stay I was placed of SP several times, and
put in physical restraints and well as actually being strapped down.
August 31th:-I was released from First hospital once
again.
September 7th:-I'm still cutting.I told Helene and she
send me to CMC for a Eval.Back to good old Firt hospital once again.I am
put her for 42 days.They are looking to send me to a RTF (residential
treatment facility)They finally get a answer so I am going to Hoffman
Homes.I get put on SP and a few physical and actual restraints during
this time.The middle of Oct. I get discharged.
While I was waiting to go to Hoffman I did contine to
cut and burn myself.
November 12th: I am signed into Hoffman Homes.The first
night I was there I started head-banging and continued to do so even
while they had me in a restraint face dow with several people on top of
me.That night I was placed on IS (intensive supervision).
Some of my medications changed while I was at Hoffman
Homes.They added a natural pill called Omega3 (flax- seed oil), they
took me off of zoloft and changed it to wellabutrin, and they took me
from 10 mgs. of zyprexa down to 5 mgs.
From the day I got there I hated the place.As the days
went on I just started hating it more and more.For about the first three
months I was there I totally isolated myself, because that was what I
was use to.But then they told me I would never get out that way and that
I was getting 0's on my level sheet.So I started to talk to people and
sit with people all the time around the time me 3rd month rolled
around.I only got in one other restraint while I was at Hoffman Homes.My
original discharge date was August 16th, but I just could not take it
anymore.So being the caring person she is, and with how much I bugged
her, my mom let me come home.She was going to sign me out AMA, but my
Dr. there decided to discharge me. I did make two very good friends
while I was there.Now I am home!
I just saw the doctor the other day and they want to
take me off of zyprexa completely and put me on another med.I believe it
is called saraquill (or something like that).
© Amy
STORY SEVENTEEN
My Story
Okay, I am a 17 year old female from a small town in Nebraska. My life was
ruined in my early childhood. We lived by a very sick neighbor who used to molest
me and at first my mom and dad didn't know and I was to scared to tell them
and when my mom finally learned of what was going on she wouldn't allow me or
my sister to play in the back yard alone anymore. Thank god. Yet in the years
to follow I was tortured at school. During my 2nd and 3rd grade years in school
a couple of older girls used to physically and mentally abuse me during recess.
It hurt very bad. Yet again I was to scared to inform people of what was going
on even though I came home crying after school. Then when we had to move I was
afraid to go to school because I thought the kids would do the same to me here.
But they were a lot nicer and didn't care that I wasn't skinny or beautiful.
Then about 2 years ago people in this small town started gossiping and spreading
rumors about my family. It was then that my mom started getting depressed and
I finally broke down and told her all of the things that happend to me. We started
seeing a counselor, who didn't help. Then I spoke out to my friends because
they didn't understand why I was so angry and sad all the time. Now they know
why and it seems like their attitude has changed around me. I wish my life was
normal but I am starting to get used to the fact that happiness was something
I wasn't supposed to enjoy everyday.
© Laurine
EIGHTEEN
Me and Self-Injury
This is hard for me to tell. I just got home from the hospital yesterday after
being in there for 3 weeks. I was in the hospital through Christmas, trying
to convince psychiatrists there that I'm really okay. I attempted suicide. I've
been self-injuring now for 5 years. I'm 16, and have been in constant emotional
pain ever since my sister got sick and came close to death. My sister is 21-years-old,
and is severely suffering from manic depression. My brother and parents have
their own way of coping, although I don't necessarily agree with their way,
either.
I began with safety pins. I started with scratches, nothing to even draw blood.
And then that stopped helping. So about a year later, I graduated to deeper
cuts, the more blood the better. Then, the safety pin wasn't enough. So I started
using a pocketknife. But soon, that wasn't enough either. Now, I'm using steak
knives, and razors. I mostly cut in my room, at night, with the door locked.
But lately, I've cut in school, in the bathroom. 3 weeks ago, I went too far.
I cut my forearms (not too deep, but enough to need a few stitches), swallowed
a bottle of meds, and chased that down with a bottle of hard liquor.
There hasn't been a time I remember that I haven't been
depressed. Now it's gotten then better of me. Since I was 11, I've
been anorexic. Now, I am 5'6 and holding at 99lbs. Terrified to reach
a pound over 100, I keep starving and cutting.
I know what it's like to hurt yourself on the outside to
try and kill what's on the inside.
I just want peace in my own mind.
Thanks for reading my story.
© Jennifer
STORY NINETEEN
Self-Injury
I self injure and to tell the truth it really does make me feel better at
the time. I have learned that I like to see blood. That is my way of showing
myself that my pain is coming out when people do not listen to me and I hate
that I have given p on telling people that I self injure because I scare them
and they do not know what to do. I am trying to learn how to control myself,
but it is very difficult and sometimes, I want to give up and not tell any one
anything. The last time I cut was the Tuesday of this week. I felt so much better,
but yet I know that this is not healthy and I can tell people not to cut I just
can't follow my own advice which really sucks and I want to learn how to do
that.....
None of my family and friends understand why I cut and how doesn't hurt. But
it just doesn't hurt and I do not know how to explain this to them besides telling
them that it really doesn't hurt me. They just think that I am playing some
kind of game, but I'm not there are few people that understand why I do this
and those people are very important to me, but I have to learn to use them as
my support system that way when I want to cut I know that I can go tell them,
that I feel that way.
Jamie
© Jamie
STORY TWENTY
Me and SI
Well, I find it rather hard to discuss this as I've never really done this
before and now I sit here with tears in my eyes as I know that I'm no longer
alone. For the first time now I have a name for what I do and that is Self-Injury.
I didn't really see it in that way. I thought this sort of thing was when you
would cut your wrists and that sort of thing. I hit myself and pull my hair
and bang my head against a wall. My boyfriend hates it and he gets so worked
up when I do it. Last week I was stood in the kitchen and I can't even remember
what it was about now but I think I dropped something and I went mad, scratching
my face till it was bleeding. Then I felt really bad afterwards. I suffer from
depression and I am on treatment. I know I need further help regarding counseling
but where and how much for. I'm getting married in 2003 and I really want to
be normal for then, I have been a lot better recently. Some times everything
gets all jumbled up an!
d nothing makes any sense. No one else seems to understand. My boyfriend hates
me doing it so much he shoutes at me for doing it which makes me feel even worse,
he loves me so much. But I still feel unloved, deep down inside it's all empty
and hopefully one day with medication and counseling I will be able to fill
the emptiness.
© Melissa
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