The Ugly Truth: Self Harm and It's Impact

by Anthony J. C. Q.

Chapter 1

My Self Harm Story

It had started with just the curiosity of what it felt like. My older half sister had cut and I wondered what it felt like for her. I had just scratched my skin really, but I vividly remember the first time I drew my own blood...

I was nine, soon to be ten and it was late, past midnight. Everyone was sleeping and I was sitting on a crate next to the window in my bedroom. Right outside my bedroom window was a street light so I could see everything. I had a piece of broken glass from a cup that had broken earlier that day. I had pushed just a little harder and pulled just a little fast that day than any other previously. And I remember the feeling I got from cutting deep enough to bleed, it was a calmness that I had never had before. Like a wave had crashed over me and enveloped me into the darkness of the deepest see.

A little while after that I had broken a razor and took the blade from it. I remember hiding the razor blade in my glasses case. I had cut almost everyday for four years. Then a little after my fourteenth birthday I had tried to run away because my home life was too much. Even still no one noticed that I self harmed until a week after that.

My father was talking to me in my room when he picked up my glasses case and opened it. He pulled out the cloth and as it unfolded the razor blades I had fell. He asked me the question, "Do you cut?". I didn't know what to do so I froze and said, "No.". He didn't believe me so he pulled my long sleeve shirt up on both arms and saw the scars and cuts on the underside of my forearms.

After that I had been watched carefully and the lock to my bedroom door had been taken off. My parents would even pull my sleeves up every now and again to make sure I hadn't cut myself.

I felt like I was being violated, I felt betrayed, I felt so angry. I needed something to calm myself down. I needed to cut. And after a few months they stopped watching me, it was like I never even cut. Aside from the jokes they would make about it every now and again.

So I did what anyone else would do, I got a razor, broke it and took the blades. I was able to go half a year before being busted again.

My father was about to shave my head when he had told me to take my hoodie off so it wouldn't get hair all over it. I had said that it was fine and so he ordered me to take it off. He saw the new cuts and took me to my parents room where he and my mother had talked about why I had started this again.

Eventually I was able to hide the cuts and I would only cut when I absolutely needed to. Then one day I couldn't take it, but I couldn't cut either. So I did the only thing I could do at the time. I had taken some of my grandmothers pain pills. And it made it better. So when I couldn't cut I'd just take some pills and I'd be fine for a little bit.

But every night I'd get so sad and lonely and I'd just cry because at the end of it, while I laid in bed I knew that the cutting and the pills wouldn't ever fixed what was broken inside myself. It was just a quick habit to calm myself. And I had gotten thoughts into my head like I wasn't good enough, or I wasn't worth it, or because I'd always be broken, what was the point?

A week before last Christmas I tried to kill myself. I had taken over fifty pain pills. I had ended up throwing them all up later that night. No one knew about it because my parents were away on a business trip and it was so late into the night everyone that was home was asleep. I was sick the entire week that led up to Christmas.

Self harm isn't a joke. It's not a cry for attention. I'm ashamed to even wear short sleeves in public because I' afraid people will see the scars. I cut because I need something to keep me grounded to the world. I don't want to die, I don't want to be sad or lonely anymore.

I just want to be happy.

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