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I don't really know how it started.....I guess it was burning first. I put a
ring of mine of mine on a hot light bulb for about 15 minutes....It was very
hot.....Then, I removed it from the bulb, placed it on my finger, and started
praying. I have no idea what provoked me to do this. It left the finger raw,
and blistered. I still have a scar. That was three years ago. And I don't
scar easy. I remember telling my mom that I didn't know what happened. And
with all honesty I didn't.
About two years ago, I made my first cut. I came home from school. That day
had been bad. My best friends Rapist, who tried to do the same to me, grabbed
a hold of my arm just outside the school. I was barely able to escape. I
don't know what drew me to the fish-gutting knife on my bedstand. I just took
it, and played with it on my fingers. I felt a slight bit of relief when
blood squirted out around it. So I stabbed all of my fingers that way, then
sliced up my arm. Not bad, comparing to what I do now. They passed for cat
scratches. My poor kitty...I have blamed him for so much, and he is so
sweet.....
I continued cutting, only once or twice a week. That quickly turned to every
other day, and then to every day....even twice a day. The result is messy
scars all up my arm, and on my legs and stomach. I have tried to
stop...Honestly! But it always comes back twice as strong. And the first
thing I do is burn when I re-start. Cuts cause quick, easy pain. But the 3rd
degree burns that i give to myself are agony. They continue to sting up into
the next day. I always have the desire to burn. The pain is just so much. But I
always end up cutting too. I need to see the blood. Sometimes, I feel like I
can't cry...I have always been the strong one. Every one else looks up to me.
So I can't cry. When I want to, I envision my blood as being crimson tears
shed by my soul. I even get so desperate that I heat up my knife with a
lighter, and the cut with it.
Some of the things I do sicken me. I can just imagine how my friends feel.
They must hate me for it! Only one remains supportive.
Michelle
Hi, having read all the personal stories I feel I have to get my worth of experience in (what little there is of it), I'm aware that part of my desire to tell my story has its basis in the intense self obsession that has me cutting myself, but, well, that narcissism, destructive as it is, is a powerful force that needs to be stated.
All my life I've had the feeling of being something "other", a thought that was intrinsic to my existence - I grew up in an unconventional way and I have vivid memories of making up outrageous lies to disguise or explain the absence of my father, my height (I'm 6'2")and my mother's (old) age - factors that to others (and I suppose at one point for me) may seem insignificant, but to me became increasingly important to my very existence and in need of constant denial and rejustification. As my obsession grew so did my lies and soon I used fibs, sometimes insignificant, sometimes scandalous to explain away every imperfection, physical and moral, that crossed my path. When subjecting yourself to such vicious cross referencing two things happen (at least for me); your real self becomes hateful and hopelessly undesirable (in all senses of the word), and you loose all sense of self. The latter lead, for me, to a complete loss of the cognitive recognition between what I did and it's effects - in that whatever I did I was capable of lying to myself and all around me that, firstly, it wasn't the real me who did this and, secondly, that it was ok, 'cos I convinced myself that I was in the right, no matter who I screwed over.
In the summer of my GCSE's a friend (someone who ended up playing a crucial role in my life, but more of that later) tackled me on something I had done to her (and greatly inconvenienced her) and when I failed to respond to her criticism (which was the closest anyone has ever come to recognising the web of lies so finely spun in side me) rejected me. The girl, C, we'll call her, was most honest person I had ever met and having destroyed a friendship with someone so pure with such a black hole of lies I began to realise the extent to which I had corrupted my own soul.
Whether this is ridiculously melodramatic or not, I took this as a cue to spin into a vicious depression that lead me out of my family home (aged 17 and in the middle of my A-levels) and turned me into a recluse. I felt incapable of communicating with anyone on a normal level, and any attempts to do so would only serve to remind me of how ridiculously different I was. I cut myself for the first time around Christmas of that year, a long deep cut that released me from the self hatred for one blissful moment, the feeling of relief so intense that I could almost hear the hiss as all the bad air burst to escape from my body. It was my only outlet and I saw it purely as a literal outlet.
I don't know to this day how I recovered. I had no friends I couldn't talk to a soul without questioning my motive, finding flaws and then having to end the conversation because I couldn't cope with the self hatred I felt just opening my mouth. Today, less than a year on I have a boyfriend (albeit a manic depressive who fell so in love with C that he had to quit school and who confesses he will never be in love with me) and a small network of friends who I am able to talk to with a reasonable degree of security that I am not "cheating" them. I cannot account for this change (although the epiphany, if you can call it that, came one night at a club when I had a chat with C about relatively normal stuff, which I could never have done even a year ago). The fact that I recovered (although not fully) somewhat detracts from my message (I hope it doesn't invalidate what I have said, this thing will always be with me, I'm just one of the luck few who has passed the worst - I still cut occasionally and find it very hard to meet new people) that for me cutting was literal escape and exorcism and while I don't deny it's destructive power, it helped me realise that as long as I took control of my real emotions (in whatever contrived way I chose) I could realise who I really was. I'm still very confused.
18/f/UK
I have just read the stories on this page and it is making me shake. My own 'abuse' started 18 months ago. I was sitting in a lesson at school when the person sitting next to me scratched me with a compass and asked if it hurt, it didn't. I thought this strange when I got home I looked at the scratch down my arm and it for some reason made me feel good. I tried it again, except I made the cut, this felt really good, I thought I was mental or something. I stopped in self disgust, then realising that I should not stop something that made me feel better just because it was anti-social so for a few weeks I carried on scratching my arm with a compass. The pain was getting worse and the cuts deeper. Then one night I was drunk at my friends flat and I found a beer can ripped in half from earlier, I contemplated cutting my arm and then I did, the blood started gushing out onto the floor, at the time I felt good. When I woke up the next morning I was in deep regret for doing it in front of my closest friends. Of the 4 of them only one of them had the guts too ask me about it, I told him and he understood, 2 of the others thought I was just trying to imitate Richey Edwards and the other thought i was mad. The people believing I was just imitating made it worse, I started to think I was myself and that the whole thing was a copy of Richey, so naturally it got worse to prove to myself I was real. I bought razor blades a cut lines into my arm, there are 25 scars there now, I have scars over my chest and hands aswell. I then realised I had to start taking control, at the age of 17 I was scarred quite badly, I went round all the sops where I could get razorblades from (crazy as it seems) and told them not to sell me razorblades again so then I started stubbing cigarettes out on my arm then I decided enough was enough I had to stop that was 6 months ago I have not cut or burnt myself since, I just made sure I was never alone in a room with anything which may be used, to me it was something I couldn't stop, I could quit smoking more easily if I wanted but I did it, hopefully I won't do it again, the happiness I had as a child is returning slightly and my life is sorting itself out.
I am sorry if my story is a bit muddled up, as I said I am shaking and upset at reading some other stories.
Love to you all!
This is really hard to write, because I don't think I even understand
the situation in my own head, but something has to give at some point,
and I'd rather it was this than me.
I don't understand what's wrong with me because my life isn't that bad.
I guess I just feel really lonely. I'm 20, fat, ugly and have never had
a date in my life. I see all my friends finding boyfriends, getting
engaged, getting married even, and it just rams home the fact even more
that I'm alone. I mean I have friends, some really great friends, but it
isn't the same. The cutting gets worse when I see this guy I work with
called Robert. I'm so attracted to him, but I know he'll never fancy
someone like me. I'm not thin, pretty and fashionable enough. So I hate
myself. I think that if I was more like her or her then maybe he'd like
me, but because I'm not like her, because I'm an ugly bitch, I deserve
to be punished.
There's a feeling of getting rid of tension too. It's like it builds up
all day and then finally it gets too much. I used to do it maybe once
every few months, but recently I've been doing it every day, in the bath
at the end of the day because the skin cuts better when its been
submerged in hot water. I use Stanley knife blades, easy to control and
they cut really well. Then I've found that I always have to have one
with me. Just in case I need it.
I try to keep them hidden, but part of me wants to show
somebody(especially Robert), in the vain hope that they will take me in
their arms, hold me close, and tell me that everything is gonna be OK.
That they really care about me and that is they had their way they would
never let anything hurt me ever again. But I know that's not going to
happen. I know that any guy who might be interested is just gonna be put
off. I really am gonna die alone. The only question is when.
Gayle
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
Although my episodes of cutting haven't been going on for any
significant amount of time I still relate to those who too cut
themselves.
After my attempts at over dosing on sleeping pills, after locking myself
in my room every night for close to a year and listening to music that
had meaning for me ( for example NIN - Hurt ) After attempting to be
bulimic and anorexic ( I succeeded for all of one week )After dealing
with 2 deaths in my family in a time slot of 2 months. After living
through my parents separation. After doing drugs for over a year, after
drinking, crying myself to sleep and finding out that I'm failing all of
my classes. I turned to the only other thing I knew how to do. Picking
up a pair of the sharpest scissors I could find and cutting up my arms.
Nobody but those who do it could ever understand it. They don't
understand the pain it takes to trigger something like this. They don't
understand the way we suffer and fight with ourselves, the way we feel
trapped, and the way we feel like we're dying inside.
I wouldn't wish this disease on anybody. And a disease that needs to be
recognised and taken seriously this definitely is.
Nobody as young as myself should have to know this amount of pain,
should feel so ashamed and so completely alone.
Sarah - 16
l'm sending you my story about dealing with self-injuring. lf you decide to
put in with the personal stories, please don't print my name or e-mail. Thank
you for your great page, it helps a lot.
l was never abused as a child. ln fact, l have two caring, loving parents who
did their best to give me a happy childhood and support me on anything. That's
what makes it even harder to understand. Why l need to cut myself, to starve
myself, to drink myself into oblivion just so l can sleep, and no one knows
about it. When l started cutting myself, three years ago, when l was 15, l
thought l was the only one, l never knew such a thing as self-injury existed.
lt was an instinct, and nothing could replace it, the amazing high of physical
pain blurs everything out for a minute, all the pressures and voices in your
head and hating myself more than anyone can understand. For me, it's hating
myself to the point l become my own worst enemy, l'm killing myself off
slowly, l guess cutting is just another method for me. l've always felt weaker
than the rest, fragile. l really can't understand how people manage to live
their lives and go to their jobs and hang out with their friends when all l
want to do is curl up and die. l feel so helpless, so anxious, l get this
weird surge of energy, pure rage, and l'd like to bash someone's head in, but
l can't, i direct it at myself, and l cut, furious, frantic, when l do it it's
almost like l'm on automatic, and l can't stop, l need to feel pain fast, real
pain. To feel something, to shock myself into consciousness, into being alive.
l do not feel myself except through pain, and it's only in pain that l am
myself. l have constructed my own world and nobody knows about it, my private
world of self-loathing. l starve myself and feel stronger, l hurt myself and
feel stronger. lt's the only way l'm able to feel strength, but the guilt
kills me. The guilt of not being the perfect daughter, having to wear the
mask all day long, and l'm so tired of this mask. The pain keeps me going, it
fuels me, and there is no me apart from it. Last night my stomach felt so
empty and my ears were ringing and my heart pounding and l felt so despaired,
so trapped. l almost cut myself last night, but l held it in, and went to bed
and tried to sleep. Last night l hallucinated and thought l was going crazy. l
heard footsteps in my room and voices in my head yelling at me. But l keep
going, and l remember what Richey James said once in an interview: "As far as
the 's' word, it never enters my mind. I may be a weak person, but l can take
pain"
He doesn't know that it was he who started my cutting -- he was the
catalyst and still is an inspiration. I loved him, and when he left, I
fell into that black pattern that rejection spins for me. Nothing felt
good anymore... then I started cutting. Just a little, just enough to
break the skin one dark February night. I was alone, glowing with
rage. But I anticipated it. I knew it was coming... I wanted to hurt
myself. Just on my upper arm, a slit so delicate, carved with care from
my art friend's x-acto I stole from her. For cutting me, cut cut cut
me.
I do it now to learn about myself. It helps me more than the physical
pain can explain. I don't cut to be different, or to impress my
friends, because they'd be freaked out if they knew. I do it for me
now, because it makes me feel in control. Glowing and alive, with
light.
I don't feel bad afterwards -- ashamed, yes, because I know I'm
different from everyone I know and love. I know people would leave me
if they knew. That's too large a loss to risk. I have never told
anyone about it, because I know they would never understand. If you
can't understand the relief cutting gives, the respect I feel for my
body when I see it weeping so beautifully, so clean and dark, you would
condemn those who cut. That's my opinion.
I feel as though I'm boasting, which is really pathetic. That isn't
what I want -- I need people to understand that cutting isn't all
freaky, dark, of demonic. It is beautiful expression, an outlet for me.
It's been about three months now. I have three scars I like to
maintain, but I plan to expand. My favourite is the left side of my
navel, sort of my flank, I guess. No one's ever seen it, or any of
them, but warm weather and undressing with a roommate may change that.
I don't hide, but rather conceal the evidence. It's my secret -- my
mystery, for me. If people were to ask, I wouldn't know how to
explain. Do I have to explain anything at all?
Aja
so this it.
i won't ramble on aimlessly with self piteous stories about my life.
it's not fair on you all as you obviously have your own problems.
i suppose it did start after i got into the manics. i would be lying if
i tried to deny that.
I'd been through hell that year. something cracked. i started to like
the manics because there was nothing else left to do, although i didn't
realise that at the time. i thought when i first cut myself with a
penknife i bought specifically for the job from a shop in Wales, that
it was all the Manic's fault for me being so depressed all the time.
I thought, "all this talk of suicide and holocausts is fucking with my
head." so i stopped. i stopped listening to the manics for about a week
and made myself listen to other stuff. well that worked really well
didn't it.
it was then i realised that my granddad's death, my parents divorce and
a million other things were responsible for the way i felt.
i started listening to the manics again. it felt good and in a way i
was torturing myself by listening to them as well as the physical
thing. i made myself upset and pretended that it was Richey's fault for
going away. it wasn't though, but it made me feel better and forget
what was really fucking with my head.
as i have said in the guest book however, i only started because i saw
Richey do it. not cause i wanted to be like him.. I've not really
figured this out in my own head yet so it's hard to share it with you.
Richey always struck me as being so perfect. maybe i wanted that too.
who knows?
however. a recent trip to Paris with a load of manics fans really
confused me. i was half proud to be part of this group of people who
obliviously had a lot of compassion for Richey and sympathised with how
he felt. the other half of me feels that i was soooo stupid to think
that i wasn't doing it cause Richey did and that i was the only manics
fan who did it. i feel that i was caught in a net and i feel like a
sheep following the rest of the flock. that's when i slowed down the
amount of times i hurt myself. nothing's changed. I'm not eating now
instead. maybe i am just stupid by design. maybe all of us here who
like the manics are. i don't think any of us are 4real. ask yourself
this: If you hadn't have heard of Richey, would you be doing it?
i don't think i would
stay beautiful
Starla
When my dad found out he told me that cutting releases endorphins, or soothing chemicals. It is certainly a soothing and calming thing, even if it is only a temporary relief. I like seeing the blood - that's why I choose to cut, and not use another method, like burning. Cutting as a method also appeals to me because it is classical- it has a romantic quality to it like in Shakespeare where people stab themselves to Death. - I've also had a strange obsession with knives, which has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I remember visions of knives invading my thoughts; they weren't knives stabbing another person or myself; just there. I didn't know then why they were there. They confused me, as if planted by another person. I still see them and I still don't know why. A mystery for the ages, perhaps? As for the times that I do SI, (Self-Injure,) it's usually when I'm bored, depressed, or lonely. I heard about SI from my friend, whose sister did it. I latched onto the concept, contemplating it. The first time I did SI was weird- I was bored, lonely, and depressed, and was testing myself to see if I could kill myself. (which I wanted to do, even though I was only 11 then) I had every intention of killing myself; but then I realized, the cutting had made me feel better what an odd thing. So, I struggled on and survived that year, cutting only a few times more. I still have the scars- obvious ones in obvious places- and I hate them! Then, last year, it was mostly loneliness. I'd just moved across the state, and didn't have any close friends, much less a boyfriend, which is what I thought I wanted. I cut small, shallow cuts with a pocket-knife I got in Wales, and a Swiss Army Knife, from my aunt in England. Sometimes I used a kitchen knife, if I know I'm going to be alone for a while, and occasionally a razor. I used to cut mostly when I was doing my homework, late at night, and I'd feel lonely, overwhelmed and depressed. I'd cut a bit, just enough to see a little drop of blood. Then the over-achiever in me would guilt-trick me into finishing my homework. And I'd cry, which I don't usually do when I cut, and often I'd end up crying myself to sleep. It was NOT a good time in my life. I started cutting again recently, when I had had all 3 meals a so called "normal" person eats in a day for the first time in what, a month, a year, a week? I don't remember, all I remember is once then going more than 48 hours without a meal, then eating. I started eating again. then I started cutting. I often thought about doing drugs, instead of cutting. I couldn't do that, though. I was and am smart, straight A's, and I didn't want to lose that one little piece of pride. Grades are important to me. I was the brilliant kid that my parents were overly proud of, and I couldn't ruin that with drugs, though I could have gotten them if I had had the money. But I'm not independently wealthy, and I value what little remaining sanity I have. I wouldn't want to lose that to drugs, ever. So, I continued cutting, for lack of other options. When I am cutting, the pain feels good. I feel punished for being the terrible person I believe myself to be. I feel calm, in control as I see my blood, and my knife, in my hands, sliding through my body. I feel like I have my own private secret, and I feel mysterious. I'm concentrating, like I do when I draw, and it's a break from what I've been feeling. It's almost as if I'm bleeding out my emotions, not blood, and good riddance, I say. Then I'm done, and being the sick sadist that I am, I like the burning pain. Once I even rubbed lemon juice into a bleeding cut, because I needed to feel even more pain. That hurt like hell, but I bit my tongue and enjoyed the almost unbearable pain. At first, I'd sometimes cut crosses, because I like
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