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I'll get there eventually...

I remember the first time I did it. I was young, and I was in that protective little bubble where before that the only thing that could upset me was mum telling me off for not saying please and thank you. The world had just started to get a bit more complicated. I can’t remember what gave me the urge to cut, instead of just crying it out as ‘normal’ people do. I can’t even remember the reason why I did it now. Which, now I find is an extremely common thing for me.

My first bleeding cut was with a razor blade, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d experimented with scissors and blunt objects before. I remember the feeling still. One swipe, and a weight was lifted, another swipe and things got clearer, another and I couldn’t even feel the pain of the cutting, another and another till everything was fine again. I was smiling, as quick as that. Then the shock of the blood came, and I panicked. At that age I didn’t understand the amount of blood a person could loose before it was dangerous, but it was honestly just a few drips. I wore a sweat band over my wrist and never thought much of it again. And that was that, my first ever self harm, nothing too shocking. Well, what I now find shocking.

After that I think there must of only been a couple of occasions for the next six months or so, and even then it was probably just a few red marks, which would of gone down by the morning. I never have cut to ‘get attention’. I cut because I find I can’t handle large situations. It’s to overwhelming, and due to that first experience I was hooked. If I don’t cut, things don’t get better. I can put off the actual activity for weeks saying ‘you can over come this’, ‘think of the scars’ but I find it just leaves me in a depression till I actually go through with it. Once the thought is in your head, it will never leave. Maybe the first time I cut it may have been for attention. I really wish I could still remember.

I remember perfectly when I properly delved into the world of self harm. And I think ‘world’ is a good way of describing it. Once you’re in it, there’s no way out. You’ve found something you can rely on. You have a feeling that you’re invincible, because you know, no matter how frustrated you get, how depressed, angry or any negative feeling for that matter, it can be resolved in less than five minutes. Even if society doesn’t see it as the best resolution. I was still quite young, and I had got into a serious relationship with an older boy. I had fallen quick and was stupid enough to throw away my virginity for him. I had an extremely low self esteem at this point, some down to being a teenager, some down to being human and some down to being in a relationship where arguing five times a day was the norm. I’d get jealous over girls quickly, and in one time in particular, after rumours had been going round. I could only think of one thing that would shift the horrible feeling out of me. I jumped in the shower, got one of my dad’s blades, and started slicing at my leg. I was amazed at how smoothly the blade swept across my thigh. Soon enough bloody started washing down my leg and swirling down the plug hole. The whole of my left leg (which, after that was always the leg that got mutilated) was scarlet. But I wasn’t concerned like the first time. This was weird as even a few specks of blood had shocked me before. Before I knew it, I had stopped crying and was smiling. If I remember rightly, even laughing? I finished washing my self as normal, got out, dried myself, got into bed, watched television and went to sleep; the normal routine. I wasn’t fazed at all that the blood from my leg was causing my pjs to stick to my skin. I fell fast asleep. This was my first experience of disassociation, something I now try to achieve when I cut. The best why I can explain is it’s the feeling of being high (but without the need to mong out). My head had disappeared from my body, taken all my emotions with it. I wasn’t happy now I had cut, I was just relaxed, content more than anything. My problems had gone, and also every other negative emotion that was going on. Yet, in the morning, after a nights sleep, that had worn off. I pulled back the duvet, and I still remember the exact number. On my thigh was 76 slashes. All starting to scab, all staring back at me. I looked down in shock. I had to now hide this. I had to take special precautions getting changed, hurrying in case anyone came in. At school, I got changed in the showers so nobody would see my leg. I didn’t want the questions or the attention. At this time it was a hassle, eventually I got used to it and it became a regular thing.

This carried on for a year, on and off. Sometimes it would just be a few scratches to release some tension, others deep, it depended on the situation. I really do think If I never self harmed, I’d of never of thought of suicide. Unfortunately, I did. I wont go into detail as this isn’t what it’s about. But after a failed attempt and being taken to hospital they referred me to a mental health clinic. There I got help and learnt other ways I could tackle my urges. And it worked…for a few months. But when I started again, in my eyes it was a lot worse.

The idea of killing myself had long gone! But I was still hooked with slashing. The numbers of cuts had dropped, but the depth had grew larger. In an average session there would be around 30 pretty deep cuts. For months I had scars all around my thighs, criss-cross’s of red, then brown, then purple marks all over me. Eventually I got better again. I had a good friends, a new blossoming romance and things were looking up.

At the end of summer 08 I had the best lift so far. Me and my parents were getting on great, I had a nephew in my family now, a new, well knitted circle of friends, and a new bloke (who was my first love). Things were like a fairy tale for months. Until he cheated on me with my best friend after my surprise birthday party they planned together for me. This is the main session I actually remember. I’ve done it to much now to remember what each one was for. It’s a sad thought, but I find from what I’ve read it’s true with most people. I wouldn’t be surprised if in total I’ve cut more than 400times. He told me in person that he cheated, after punching him in the face a few times, I calmed down. And realised I couldn’t handle it. Everything blurred and I could only concentrate on one thing. The image of them had gone, and all I could think about was the kitchen draw. I’d used knives before, but I find it really hard to go deep with them, I find them too painful to cause anything but a scrape. I looked straight at my bedroom door and ran. I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast in my life. I went straight into the kitchen, slammed the door, grabbed hold of the knife, jabbed the blade of it in my thigh and dragged it across. Everything went so fast. I had completely left my head. I felt nothing, no sharpness, no stinging. Nothing. Soon after my ex came running through the door, grabbed the knife off me and just after it was out of my hand I grabbed another (as a straight reflex) and cut again. When the knife was taken off me, I grabbed another. Each time I felt nothing. I looked him in the eyes and burst into tears. I’d never cut infront of anyone before. He looked at my leg in shock. I looked down too. I think my shock was different to his. I was fascinated in the fact that the kitchen knives had actually caused some effect. I had tried so hard to reach the point of blood before, but they never had done. EverytimeI tried to self harm with them I stopped because they hurt. And now, here I was, crawled up on my kitchen floor with three of the deepest gashes I had ever done, and I had not felt a thing.

Self harming became a much more regular thing after that. With on average about 2-3 sessions a week. And they always seemed to get deeper and deeper. To cut a long story short, after ‘erratic’ and ‘worrying’ behaviour- not just with self harm but with other acts and my personality I was referred back into hospital. 15months after I had been discharged. I stayed in for four days this time. At this point, I didn’t feel normal. My head was somewhere else. I felt like another being, that I could see more than what everyone else could see. I felt I had more power than the average day person. Maybe it was the self harm that brought me that power? I had control over what I could prevent myself from feeling. Maybe it was the fact I was depressed and my head wasn’t working with it? Or the fact I was suffering with another mental illness? I haven’t a clue. All I know is when the nurse would bandage my arm up in the morning, and the visitors would give me weird look; either disgust, worry or a pure look of curiosity. I felt on show but still the feeling of shame had gone. After three years, I accepted I was a self harmer. I accepted that this, no matter how much help I get, this is how I cope. It may not look attractive, it may be ‘weird’, ‘unstable’ or whatever people want to call it. But for me it works. When you’ve been close to dying a couple of times, self harm is like your lucky charm. It shows you’ve made it this far.

I now only have three main scars on my body, the rest are slowly fading. One on my arm from where I miscalculated the blade and my arm spurted out blood. I didn’t ask for help, I didn’t want the attention and people to worry. I stayed up all night with a towel round my arm, lying on it till five in the morning waiting for the bleeding to stop. I then woke up at seven to get ready for school like a typical day. If I’m honest, I’d never been so worried in all my life. My arm looked like it belonged in a horror film. I have one from when my ex cheated. And the other which again, I miscalculated the other day, it’s now scabbing, but will be a white scar. I hate my scars. I can’t go swimming like normal people, or go on holiday without reminding my parents that their daughter isn’t happy. It takes a lot of me to trust blokes to see my body, because to see my body, they need to know how I got the cuts, the scabs, the scars. And that takes a lot to let someone know that and trust that they wont judge you or share it with anyone else.

I sometimes think if I could turn back time to that stupid little girl I was when I first picked up a blade I’d slap her right in the face and ask her what on earth she was thinking. Or sometimes I’d go to the time I first went ‘too deep’ and tell myself to watch it. If I never cut in the first place, I don’t know where I’d be. I could be living a perfectly stable life. Where there’s no secrets, no shame, no guilt for the family. Or I could be dead and self harm was/is the thing that saved me, or is saving me till I no longer feel the urge. I know my limits with my blades, I know when I can hold back now and when it’s make or break. This is a slow beginning to a life without a scabby body. First know my limits, second make the smaller issues more reliant on just having a cry or chat. Slowly over time I’ll make it. I don’t, and doubt I ever could look at self mutilation in a bad way, because in my opinion it has helped. But at least after these three and a half years I’ve now reached a point where I can say there’s another way. I’ll get there. Everyone can. Breaking old habits just take a bit of time.

Story shared: 22/06/2009 21:03:35

#499 View the comments about this story Tags: self harm - suicide - true accounts - true story - self mutilation - mental illness - depression

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