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You can share your story about self injury or eating disorders here in written or video form.

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Hello I'm Dakota and Im a 19 year old guy. My road to self injury started when I was 17. when I 13 I was going out with the most beautiful and fun filled girl I have and ever will know. We dated for well over 3 years and everything was great (you know the whole typical story of young love). To me everything was perfect and to her it was a dream come true then in spring break 2010 me, her, and my parents went out for a camping trip (her parents celebrating their anniversary). It was 2 days into our camping trip around 12:30am my mom was asleep and my dad was tending the fire. Me and her went for a walk in the woods and found a clearing with a perfect view of the stars so we laid there and just talked for hours. It was now around 3:00am when we got up and started walking back when I heard a loud bang. I froze still not knowing what happened. I looked down and saw what I certainly thought couldn't be reality. She was lying on the ground blood on her chest I fell to my knees and screamed. tears cascading down my face as a held her lifeless body so coldy and still in my beating hands. My dad ran from the bushes and saw me just screaming her name he ran up pulled me off and grabbed her and ran back to camp. It was then a man in a camo suit bearing a rifle in his hand ran up and asked what happened. My dad came back and grabbed me and the man and dragged us to the car my dad explaining to the man what he had done to my beloved. We got in the car and drove to the hospital and from there it was a 20min wait sitting in silence of the hospital lounge with me my parents and hers as well. The doctor came out talked to her parents then to mine. My mother broke the news to me (she was always good at making bad things sound better) she was dead. The .357 hollow point hit her left shoulder blade and shrapnel tore through her heart, dead almost instantly. Since then I feel... well I don't feel anything but pain. no happieness, sadness, anger, nothing but pain. Just a hollow shell walking the crowds of people in reality its like I'm there but not alive. cutting myself bring out the only feeling I have left letting me know I'm still here. Since the "incident" I have been hospitalized 17 times and all together have had over 200 stitches. I've tried to shoot myself only for my dad to walk in when I realized the safety was on I've also hung myself only to be cut down by my frantic mother. I don't know what to do, is it my fault could I have done something to save her why me. I guess I'll never know. None of my freinds know this about so when they saw they first saw the scars I was almost shunned. no one wanted to talk to me it was like I was a monster or I had some terrible disease. Things have calmed down now but I can't look at my freinds without seeing worry in their eyes. Every day I'm asked "are you ok?" or "whats bothering you?" and it hurts because when they try to help but can't do anything it just makes me realize how alone I truly am. So this is my story of the road I took to self injury and I'm still lost searching for a reason to live on so far I haven't found anything.


I'm an 18 year old girl with quite a story. When I was 12 my mom divorced my dad and I didn't hear from him till I was 15. He called me one day and told me to run away with him and leave my mom but I never did because before the divorce he "abused" me alot. 2 weeks after I rejected his offer he started threatening me and my mom so we filed a restraining order against him. I was 16 at the point everything really happened. It was about 2:30am when me and my mom were asleep when I heard the loudest scream ever and smelled smoke. I ran to my mom's room only to find her tied to her bed on fire. My dad standing there pouring gasoline on her from a jerry can. I ran and tackeld my dad to the floor. He than punched me off and kept beating me while I was on the ground with my mothers screams in the background. He then stood up and kicked me in the stomach so hard I vomitted. He then pulled his gun from behind him and shot me in my right shoulder than jumped out of the window. I couldn't move because of the severe pain so all I could do is just lay their watching my mother scream and suffer. Within what felt like hours the fire spread to most of the house and I was sorrounded by the flames and had lost alot of blood. My mother stopped screaming so assumed she was dead. I pasted out from blood loss then woke up in a hospital 2 days later. My older Brother was in the room with me apparently he flew all the way from San Fransico, Californa to Anchorage, Alaska (where I used to live). My brother than explained the details that I didn't know and one thing I did. He said mom was dead which I already knew and that the house burned to the ground. Also when my dad tried to escape and jumped out the window he landed head first into the driveway and broke his neck. Ever since I've had arsonphobia (fear of fire) and started self injuring. I still self injure and no one really know's. Right now I'm currently living with my brother and was just released from the hospital after a 3 week stay for "my own protection" I told my brother I was on vacation in Kodiak, Alaska staying with my freind. So thats my story and now I'm on the road of recovery. It will take time especially since of my pavor nocturnus (night terrors) but I will get there


I have been depressed since I was six years old. Nothing traumatic or upsetting happened to me, I just got it from my parents, I guess. I started cutting when I was nine. I don't even know where I got the idea from. I thought I was the only one who did it. It took about three months before I was addicted. At age 11 I stoped eating and started purging. I am still unclear if I am anorexic or bulimic. At age 11 I also attempted suicide for the first time. Now I am thirteen and I will be eating normally for 15 weeks on 3/11/12! I decided to work on ED recovery before SI recovery. I am no longer suicidal. I see a therapist every week. I am on my way to recovery!


Hey, I'm Chloe. I'm a 16 year old girl, just like any other 16 year old girl, I listen to music, hang with my friends and have fun. But no one knows my deepest secrets. I've never wanted to tell anyone this, but I'm at a stage now where I can speak about it openly. For two years of my life, I self harmed ... This all started because of the childhood I had, yeah i was brought up well, but with a violent father it's hard to forget some things. At this time, I was also being bullied, just because I didn't "fit in". It started off fairly lightly, but as things got worse, I got questioned a lot. And by summer last year my mother knew. I started going to counselling for this, at first I didn't want to talk, because I was a very shy girl, but as I kept going, It made me realise how many good things there was in life, and I was only seeing the negative. I still go to counselling, and I have started a club in school, it's to help people just like me, with metal illnesses ... Helping others who have been through the same as me, really makes me feel like I have a purpose, which is pretty awesome ... So yeah, this has been my story, the story I overcame.


My name's Jade, and I'm 17. I've been self injuring since I was 13 years old. I had know about self injury before through television and movies, though the idea repulsed and even frightened me. However, I had heard a girl explain doing it herself, and despite her clear warning on why it's a stupid thing to do, it somehow didn't sound repulsive this time around. I decided to try it.

I remember locking the bathroom door and trying it. The details aren't entirely vivid. I really don't remember how it felt, or how I hid my cuts afterword. Only what I used, and the blood beaming in a thick bubble against my wrist. I suppose I enjoyed it, because I slowly got into it, starting off with a couple times a month to a multiple times a week extravagance.

Cutting was something I loved for many reasons. It just made me feel safe. Any time I was uncertain, nervous, afraid or numb to the core I felt a sense of euphoria I can't really explain. I would do it and suddenly feel okay again. I felt grounded on the earth with my head perfectly aligned amongst my shoulders. I felt free, and I felt like an actual person with actual feelings just like before.

Cutting was a very secretive thing; it was MY desire to peirce at my skin and I didn't want to get that taken away from me, so I was selective with whom I told. It was a rather anxious experience, hiding it and hoping no one would discover my little secret and take the one thing I loved away from me.

I got caught, yet nothing really happened. Everyone in my family was shocked and in a loss of what to do. No one brought it up again so I spent the whole summer relieved I didn't get caught and decided to play it safe and cut only my legs and my wrists where I could hide the cuts with wrist bands. I was found out about again, this time from wearing a strappless night gown. I felt like an idiot.

like the previous occassion in which I was caught, no one really said anything. I wasn't really confronted to seek help until i entered a mental hospital. I sort of had no choice. It was either quit or stay locked up without any chance of escaping any time soon. So I played the game but I never really stopped. i didn't get it either; I tried so hard but I couldn't quit despite just wanting to be free.

I remember at that time I felt as if I wanted to stop; I wanted to let go of the bars that held me captive, the safety net I trapped myself in, all that pointless security I gaurded. All that worthless desire to control myself and have what was mine. Looking back now I know I didn't. I just felt like I had to and therefore I manipulated myself to get what others wanted out of me. I just felt like I couldn't stop something that I needed to quit and that something was wrong with me.

At this point at time I can say I never really have stopped. I have been trying to quit for about three years now with a bit of progress but not enough to meet my own personal standards. I really only cut about once every one to three months. The best progress I've made is I've really let go. I feel like cutting is no longer a saftey net or part of my personality to latch onto and to keep things safe and predictable. The fact I want to cut or burn giving me tremendous fear of giving myself terrible injuries; something I've never battled before. I still feel like I can't quit and I know I'm not at that place yet and sometimes I get frustrated. I feel like it's a bad thing and something must be wrong with me because I just can't quit. I know now though that I have made great gains, and maybe even if I can't ever quit, I'm more certain than ever, and that gives me hope.

Kathy Davis

So, I'll start from the beginning. My name is Kathy Davis (some people call me KD) and I'm 15. I don't remember a lot from my childhood, but I've been told by my mom and my sister that my sister used to hit me when I was 2-3. Ages 4-7 were a lot better than most families. My parents were (and still are) together, no one in my house smokes or drinks or anything like that. I was generally happy. Things went horribly wrong for me when I was 8. One day, my brother said he wanted to show me something in his room and ended up raping me. He said not to tell anyone, and because I love him, I didn't. That wasn't the only time he did it. He did it on a regular basis, excluding holidays and special occasions. When we visited my grandpa, he would just touch me when no one was around. It didn't stop until a while after my 9th birthday. I kept the dirty secret until I was 10 when I told my mom. I thought I was getting over it, mainly because I wasn't thinking about it very often. I realize now, that I'm no where near over it. When I was 12 my family moved to another province where I was bullied to the point of wanting to kill myself. When I was 13, I made my first cut. I soon learned how to fake happiness where my mom can't even tell the difference. I only had a black hoodie. You would think people would notice a 13-14 year-old always wearing a black hoodie even in hot wheather but I guess not. Anyways, about a week before my mom and I moved back to our hometown, she saw my cuts/scars. I'm 15 now, living in a new town, trying my best to quit cutting. My parents lock away the sharp objects at night and when I'm left home alone. But now it's hard to convince myself to eat. I haven't purged yet, but I'm afraid I will soon. I don't want an eating disorder, I just want to give myself the pain I deserve. I'm currently 116lbs, afraid of becoming 120lbs (my weight when I eat normally). I thought to myself the other night "I would rather die than be 120lbs". And I have never been more afraid in my life.


I grew up moving from house to house a lot. In the summer of 2006 I had to live with my dad, his girlfriend, and her two children. I was 12. It was around that time when my depression had begun. The separation from my mother and sister was a lot for me to take in, not to mention the fact that I was starting an entirely different school district. I knew no one except for my neighbor, and I wasn't good at making friends. I remember the first few years going by pretty well. Some things happened there that were a little ridiculous, but nothing to contribute to my depression significantly. In 2008, when I was starting high school, it was decided that I would not be able to be friends with my neighbor, due to age differences and an attraction to each other. That broke my heart, and that's when things went downhill. In April of 2009, after it was apparent that nothing could be done about my neighbor and our relationship, I started self-harming (among other reasons). My father quickly found out about it and threatened to send me to therapy, but I was against it at first. He would check me about daily for a couple weeks, then ended up stopping. I also stopped self-injuring for a little while. However, the next school year, when I was a sophomore in high school, things got worse, and self-harming was the only way I knew how to deal with my problems. I figured since I wasn't being checked anymore, things would be fine. I was able to live like that until February of 2010. I was due for a physical and it was then that my father had knowledge that I started self-injuring again. He told me it would be okay. I believed him. When he took me home, he and his girlfriend tried talking to me about it. I don't remember what was said. I do remember that they forced me to give them my tools. I did. Later on, this would cause me to use different, and possibly dirtier items, on myself. The months that passed that February were unbearably difficult for me. I had to go to therapy, which I didn't enjoy. The abuse was getting worse, but it never escalated into physical violence. They were mean, and would yell at me, and blame things on me, thing that weren't even my fault. They did this so much that I believe I had been going insane. I used my computer as a means for escape. One time, when discovering that I had hurt myself, my father mocked my self-harm, broke a vase and told me I couldn't help him because the pieces were sharp, and started smoking after one year of quitting, saying it was my fault. During this time, I had begun to become very suicidal. I tried on numerous occasions to kill myself. Things were hard. I didn't see myself graduating high school if I had to stay with my dad. He and his girlfriend were making my life a living hell, and I needed to get out of there. In the summer of 2010, I was able to move in with my grandparents. My mother, who I had lived with until I was 12, was having trouble staying in the same houses, and I wouldn't have been able to live with her, according to my father. The fact that I was able to live with my grandparents was, and still is, one of the best things in my life. However, this move and the relief that I wasn't in that house didn't change the fact that I was depressed and still self-harmed. I didn't do it as much as I was previously. But, I still would do it on weird occasions. I had a problem with it, still, until January of this year. I don't go to therapy anymore. I have actually committed myself to stopping self-harming, because of various reasons. One being that the previous times I have hurt myself, they have resulted in scars that are still there and are very noticeable; one marks back to December of 2010. Another reason being that I have gotten into fashion, and I want to be able to wear short sleeves and skirts and shorts without needing things to cover up. Also, I am going on a trip this coming summer and I don't want anyone to be too questioning of my scars. I haven't attempted suicide since I was living with my dad, in 2010. Suicidal feelings are still there sometimes, and it's horrible. However, I am so gracious for the chances I have gotten. The past still hurts, but I am learning to deal with it. Recently, things have been consistently going up in my life. These things make me glad to be alive, and glad to not be hurting myself anymore, at least for the time being.


Hi, you can call me Esther, that's my Hebrew name.
The earliest memory I have is my step-father hitting me, I don't know what I did, but I was two years old. He never just hit me once, or just spanked me like other kids parents would. There were many times when I had to lie about the bruises I had at school, like when
my mom told me to tell the teacher I was hit in the eye with a baseball, and it killed me whenever the counselors would come to class and give speeches about how if we were being miss treated we should tell someone, that we would be safe, that they would help us. I just sat there feeling sick thinking about how I would never tell anyone, because if I talked about the abuse that would mean it was real, and I didn't want it to ever be real.
He would beat me almost everyday, for no reason, like if I didn't clean my room right, he would say I had an attitude, that I disrespected him, or if he was just in a bad mood and needed someone to take his anger out on, he would even whine that I didn't love him. He hated me, and I didn't understand why until I was older, it was because I wasn't his kid, he hated that my mother was with another man before him, and I am a constant reminder of that. He would tell me, if you say anything they will take away your bother and sisters too, and you will never see your mother again. I didn't hate my mother, I loved her, I forgave her for never helping me, and for blaming me, she would say, "You stress out your father, you need to be a better child, tell him you love him." but I did tell him I loved him, even if it was a lie I told him to make him happy, but he never said I love you back, and that's okay, I had my mother.
When I got into middle school he stopped hitting me, my mother had taken him to a doctor and they gave him medicine to control his anger. All of a sudden I didn't have to hide in my room, I didn't have to be seen and not heard, but he started calling me names, and worse encouraging my siblings to join in. I was told I was a "horrible little child" "as fat as a cow" "a boot mouth" (turns out I talk louder than most people because I have hearing loss) and "a crybaby" even when I didn't cry I was a crybaby to them, so I stopped crying and wouldn't allow myself to cry, instead I would hit myself. My mom saw me hit myself in the head and she told me people would think I was crazy, or retarded, so I stopped.
When I was twelve years old my father started into his normal routine, calling me names, I got so angry I just went to my room. My dad sent my little sister to say, "dad says he's not sorry and he will never say he is sorry." okay, why did he do that, just to be cruel? True to his word he has never said he is sorry. I was so angry and sad I didn't know what to do. I felt so alone, I felt insane, my mind was racing. I laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I just wanted this mental pain to be physical, I wanted to look at a wound and say that's why I'm sad, that's what my hurt is. That was the first time I cut, and it just got worse. I would wear bracelets, and never talk to anyone about it, I dreamed about it, I longed for physical pain, I ached for it, but it got out of control. I was not remembering the things I did to myself, it was like I was in a trance until I hurt myself. I walked around depressed thinking that life had no meaning, that we all just live and die and that there was no reason to be happy. I thought about death constantly, and I wrote about how I just wanted to be dead, how all I was was a body full of scars, how I was just damaged and empty.
When I got into high school the emo fad was going around, I would see these girls with wounds out in the open, showing it off to each other, and I was just enraged, they would say, "my boyfriend broke up with me" "I'm just so stressed out" well, that maybe but why did they show off? I was asked a lot are you emo? Do you cut yourself? Really, that's personal, and I don't even know you. I told my mom about my self harm when I was 18, she sent me to a psychologist and a therapist, the meds didn't help, I was numb while on Prozac, and my sleep meds woke me up every few minutes. I never told them about my step-father, I never told them what he did.
My step-father stopped being verbally abusive, at least a lot less than he used to be. He was all about looking like the perfect person to the outside world, he even talked about G-d to people and he actually posts a lot on Facebook about Jesus and whatnot, about how we should treat people better, but he's the biggest hypocrite I've ever seen, he doesn't practice what he preaches literally.
I started thinking about what life was really all about, do we really just waste time waiting to die? Is life really worth it? Then I heard a song called Hava Nagila in Hebrew, and I was filled with so much joy, I began to think of life as a gift. So many people die young, have illnesses that most people wouldn't wish on their worst enemy, and here I was taking my life for granted, I didn't want to die, I just didn't want to be in pain. I stopped self harming and for once I stuck with it, at times I wanted to just scream, it would feel like my head was going to explode and I felt crazy, but I didn't want to start the count over, the count of how many days I went without self harm. I would also tell myself if I self harm then he wins, I hated the thought that he could make me feel so bad that I would hurt myself, I didn't want him to have that kind of power over me. I'm turning 21 this year, and I haven't self injured in two years and counting. I am more that the scars I have, I can cry and not be weak. Judaism has taught me that G-d hears the prayers said though tears louder than the prayer said with dry eyes. My step-father took my tears from me, and G-d gave them back. L'Chaim means "To Life!" it's a toast many Jews say, and I am so grateful to be focusing on life now, I can change my future, but I am still dealing with my past, I don't want to say it gets easier, I had to learn how to express myself, I had to learn how to cry again, and it wasn't easy. Now when I feel down I go outside and look at the beautiful world G-d gave us, I thank him for the opportunity to see the sunset, to feel the rain, and to just live. I'm now an observant Jew, and I know not everyone believes in G-d and that's okay, but it's what gives me comfort.


I began self harming, when I was 13 years old. I am 20 now so I have been fighting this battle for almost eight years. It all began in the 7th grade, when puberty hit. I have always been a tomboy, so puberty freaked me out. I identify as genderqueer. In my mind my gender falls in between male and female, even though I am bilogically a female. On top of all this, I am bisexual and I grew up in a religious household. Feeling like a freak, cutting became my source of comfort. I felt like I had no one in the world to talk to; afterall, I was thought of as "the typical teenager with emotions". My cutting did not really hit hard until I was 16 years old. I have always loved to write, and well I made the mistake of leaving my journal in the family room, open, writing a poem about living as a bisexual teenager. Bad decision I know. Long story short, my parents discovered it, read it, and well found out their daughter was not straight. Living in a religious household, my family explained to me that I was going to hell, and basically ignored me. I thought suicide was my only option. I thought, "If my own family can't accept me, then who can?" I set a date to end my life, wrote letters to all my friends, and left them with instrustions to read the letters the following day. (they were goodbye letters). My one friend however, read it early, called me, and explained to me that she needed me in her life, and she loved me. No matter if my family did not. She saved me life, if it was not for her, I would not be here, I went to theropy for a few months when I turned 17, was given some other things to do instead of cutting, stayed clean for a few weeks, and went right back to where I started from. Life in all is like a big rollercoaster. The rollercoaster has however gotten better now that I am out of high school. I still struggle day to day with self harm, I have group of close friends who support me now. Things do get better, they just take time.


Hi! I'm Jocy. I'm 17 years old, and a junior in high school. I've been cutting myself since middle school. When I first transferred to that middle school in 7th grade, I had a friend or two that already went there. I didn't mind the new school to much till I started getting bullied. It wasn't physical, but it still hurt. I was called anything from a "gothic whore" to having some one get sat next to me in class and say, "crap, forgot my cross!". To make things worse a "friend" told all the people I hung out with at the time that I was a lesbian. I lost a lot of friends because of that. That's when I first noticed my depression. One girl that stuck around even after the rumors, introduced me to cutting. At first I was shocked and couldn't understand why, like most people react. She told me her reasoning but I still couldn't understand. A few weeks later I cut for the first time out of anger and depression. It took only that one time to get me addicted. That addiction grew till I was cutting multiple times a day (sometimes even in class) and I had no desire to stop what so ever. About a year after I started my mom found the cuts and sent me to multiple counselors. I managed to stop for a while to make my parents happy but picked up again after they stopped looking. Another year later they found out again. I was sent to my current counselor who has helped a lot. After I started to cut less and less, I struggled briefly with bulimia and anorexia but overcame that quickly with the help of my friends. Even to this day I struggle with hurting myself both physically and emotionally. It's a constant battle that I am slowly, but surely winning.


Like every story, even mine has a beginning. It all started when I was 15-16 years old. When I frist started going to High School, I was your normal, happy child. I enjoyed life to the fullest. During the first few weeks of High School a boy, caught my attention. He was gorgeous. Something about him, just made my stomach react in a way it never had before. But there way a problem, because he was dating my friend and that is just a big no-no between friends. So in time I forgot a bit about him. Then the second grade of High School came and again I started dreaming about him, only this time he was single. I still partied with my friends and had fun, but I just really liked him. And I never actually talked to him at that point. Then in May, we were on vacation and me and my old schoolmates from Primary School decided to have a sort of a reunion party. I partied, hard. It got to one point, where I was quite drunk and didn't know what I was doing. And 2 of my schoolmates took advantage of that. I don't know if what they did would be considered as rape, but I do know, that they made me do things, that I didn't want to do. The events from that night, made my life worse. I could not stop thinking about it, and blaming myself for being so stupid. In the meanwhile at another party I actually talked to this boy I liked. He was a real sweetheart and I was in heaven that night. But he did tell me, that he really does not want a relationship right now. And I was ok with it, as long as I could stare in his eyes and kiss his lips. We went out a couple of times and it was great. Then one day, I get a text message from him, saying that he does not want anything to do with me anymore and he's just not ready for a relationship. I was devestated, even though I knew that something like this may happen. That summer, the summer of 2008 is when I first cut myself. I don't know why I did it, I just knew in my mind that it would help. And it did. When I hurt myself I was able to forget about all that has happened to me and I was able to function normally. But then, my depression hit me. I still fight with it, to this day, and I still don't know what caused it. It probably happened because of the event in May - which I still can't forget about and I don't think I ever will; and those in summer time. The depression hit hard. I got to a point with my Self Injury, where I was hurting myself everyday, multiple times a day. I don't ever want to go back to that time. It was just horrible. My grades were bad, my behaviour was horrible, I had no social life, I only had my Self Injury. In the beggining of my 3rd year in High School I got a new friend. He was nice. We talked and soon I was able to open up to him, because we started going out. I was able to tell him everything about me and he just listened and tryed to help me the best way he knew. At that time, I was feeling better. My Self Injury was under control and I only cut once a day, or once every two days. Until one day, when he told me, that he wanted to see my scars. I will never, EVER, forget that night. I have no idea why I agreed to do so, but I did show them to him. I remember he looking at my arms and legs and going, 'Oh, they're not that bad.' That line still haunts me everytime I hurt myself. That made me feel worthless, like I couldn't even hurt myself in a proper way. I started cutting more frequently again and my scars got bigger. Still not too bad, but they were worse. I later gave into my Depression again and I dumped this guy, even though he was helping me out so much. Since then, I can never bring myself to tell someone about my Self Injury or about the events in May, 2008. To this day, I hide my scars and cuts, I hide my body from the world. I am not on the road to recovery, I've been there, but I failed miserably. I try to live normally, function normally. Some days are easier, some are harder. I try to hold on. I have relapses and I try and not to think about them too much, because I know that they're 'normal'. I don't think I'm ready for recovery just yet. And it's hard, because noone knows about my Self Injury, but it would be even harded if someone did. They would just force me into recovery, I know it, and that would be even worse. I cannot confront the people I know in real life about this, but I can tell you - so hello, my name is Jana and I am a Self Injurer.


This is my story so here it goes,
-it started when i was about ten years when someone i trusted sexual abused me
When i turned 13 that's when the self harm started it became my way of coping with all feeling and thoughts that were going around my head it was done in secret nobody knew until i was 19 but during that time my eating also became affected on and off for ages but know i am 21 still self harming and with eating problems but i started to talking about the feeling to a person i trust after a visit to the doctors i got put on some meds but a couple of months later things had gotten worse i had lost a lot of weight and got referred to crisis after a sort of suicide letter got written they then referred me to the a place called freedbeechers which help people with eating disorders that is due to start on Tuesday were i have 1 hr counseling and after that i have complementary therapy which may not who knows only time will tell one thing i just concentrating on

is ONE breath at a time,
then ONE hour at a time
then ONE day a time
ONE healing moment at time.


Ever since I was a child I was always made fun of for being fat or ugly and my father was never in the picture due to drugs and alcohol. My mother was abusive and my brother had sexually assulted me. Nothing was going well in my life and I had started bruising myself and pulling out my hair during grade 6 through to grade 8 I would even skip meals for a week then start eating again. When I got to grade 9 everything got worse I was more depressed then I'd ever been and I started cutting and burning. I went to more extreme lengths and would throw up my food and cut in the basment washroom of my school. All the while my mother never had a clue to what I was doing even though I was wearing sweaters and arm warmers non-stop. When grade 12 roled around I got a new female doctor (because I kept complaining about having a male doctor and refusing to go secretly only so I wouldnt get found out.) So my female doctor found out and I was only 17 at the time so she was forced to tell my didnt stop what I was doing things only got worse. My mother had been just recently diagnosed with stage 4 bladder cancer. Life was getting even more scary and my mother wasnt supossed to live past a year. She died last summer on July 17 2011 at 3:17 pm. I can never forget it because I held her hand until she took her last breathe I couldnt help but hold her hand till she started feeling cold. I've been hospitalized three times the first was 5 days the second time was 8 and the third time was after my mother died I was in the hospital for 14 days and got out the day before my 18th birthday on august 20th. I went on a drug and alcohol binge half of the summer I cant even remember. And now months after Im happy to say I at least dont drink and do drugs anymore. My cutting is slowing down though my E.D. isnt really going away...Sometimes I get sad and hope I dont loose my cutting since its all I have left even my best friend abondoned me right after my mother died. She went to go live with my older brother and her current bf. though the age difference is scary shes 19 and hes 32.


Well this is probably going to be a long story. I'm Abby, or Abaigeal, 19 years old, and I live in Minnesota. When I was about 10 my dad started drinking heavily and abusing my mom every night, and every night I would wake up to the same thing.. Screaming, terrible noises you don't ever want to hear. My mom left us with him one night.. she was just gone. I ended up taking care and being the mother figure for my 3 younger siblings at 11, I never really had much of a childhood so to say. We went back and forth from living with my dad and his girlfriend to living with my mom and her boyfriend to my grandparents and so on. My dad's girlfriend was quite abusive, she wouldn't allow us to eat from time to time, and was generally emotionally abusive. Eventually my parents got back together and we moved to California. I have had general depression since I was about 9, severe social anxiety and insomnia my entire life, and have been self-injuring since I was 13. I started cutting my legs but eventually moved on to piercing myself every day to avoid scars. I started up in a relationship from a friend I had back in Minnesota, that ended up to be a bad idea. He was extremely emotionally and physically abusive. He would threaten to kill me and rape me if I ever left him. Physically restrain me and hit me, strangle me until I passed out. He would not allow me to have any friends or talk to anyone. After 2 years of that crap I left him. The self-injury got so bad, I was cutting almost every day, piercing myself multiple times a day. Then I started on the anorexia cycle, exercising excessively, 4 miles a day I would run. My dad started making me drink every night, trying to hook me up with random boys for whatever reason. Then my mom found out and we left 2 weeks after to Minnesota. Then the bulimia started, I needed to relieve my anxiety and depression somehow that was easier to hide. I started purging like 8 or more times a day, it didn't matter if it was just water or soda or crackers, it had to come out. Drinking became a huge problem for me. I then moved to Kansas with my new boyfriend, but I couldn't find a job. I found myself to be in a lot of debt and turned back to cutting. One night I lost so much blood my boyfriend came home from work to find me passed out on the living room floor covered in blood.. He took me to the hospital the next day and I stayed in the psych ward for 5 days. I was readmitted 2 more times after that until the doctors finally said that I either had to move back home or they were going to commit me to the psych ward for months, so I moved home. Things got worse, much worse! I was drinking every day all day, driving drunk, going to work drunk, purging more times then I could count. Again I cut myself so bad I had to get many many stiches. As of lately.. I'm still piercing myself to get rid of the anxiety, still purging about 8 times a day. I was in the hospital for 4 days this last week because my potassium was so low I couldn't stay conscious and my heart almost stopped. The doctors there told me that I either had to commit to an IP eating disorder program or they were going to commit me to the psych ward for several months again, I'm not really sure how they can threaten that, but they did. I'm in the process of getting into an ED program. I really do not want to get better, a big part of me thinks I deserve to die and suffer; I need the pain to live whether I live or not. I'm going to try and get better for my boyfriend and for my mom. I'm so lucky to have people who care for me so much; I know it kills them to see me like this. I wish I was stronger! As do most of us.


When i was in middle school, things were really hard for me. i wasnt accepted and i was teased alot. i had one best friend at the time who was killed in a car accident halfway through my 7th grade year. in order to cope with all the emotional tourment of bullying and loosing my only friend, i turned to hurting myself. I used SI as a way to cope for a long time. My eating disorders came along a few years later when i was 17 and my sister moved cross country to be with a guy she had never met. i turned to bulimia as a way to control the situation and my feelings. anorexia set in about 2 years after that.

i am now 20 years old and have been self injuring for 8 years and struggling with bulimia and anorexia for 3 and a half years. I am currently 76 days SI free (yay!) but my eating disorders are still raging on. My amazing therapist is helping me to overcome both of these addictions.


Starting from corruption.
My mum met my father on an extended vacation in Finland. He was married with kids in primary school, and my mum was young. Predictably, yes, I was an accident. Of course I was an accident. Most likely though, when you hear me talking about my father, I mean my step-dad. Because my blood father isn't my father.

I have the same aspiration as my mum used to. She wanted to be an actress. A theatre actress though. And having a kid didn't help that. As well, her income wasn't great at the time. Eventually, arrangements were made and I spent a good chunk of my childhood with my aunt. My mum later took on being a full-time student fitting a late-shift job in between that, so it seemed like I saw her less and less because she was trying to make a life for me out of her own mistakes. But at the same time, she made another mistake. One that she wouldn't stop regretting, still hasn't to this day.

My aunt was actually an alcoholic. Way, way too deep into it. She was horrible. Spent her nights drinking and the days in bed. I don't even know how the extent of this had gone unnoticed by the rest of the family for so long. I don't know if it was the drinking, or if it was really her conscious decision—I really hope it was the first one—but she really started to act like she almost loathed me. But in a sort of (I hate to describe it this way) bipolar fashion, where one minute she'd be making me breakfast and the other screaming at me, shouting things like "I should never have agreed to take care of you." The abuse didn't start for a couple years. It gradually built itself up. It was always in the evenings, which is why I'm more confident than not that it was the drinking that made her that way. Probably why I'm so opposed to drinking now.

My mum took me back when she finished medical school, and my aunt went into rehab, my mum having forced her into it when I finally got up the courage to tell her what was going on. My mum became a nurse. And that was her niche. She could support me. That's when the calm came, the best part of my life. We lived away from everything, in a small house in Suffolk. Where I met amazing friends and was happy. My mum met my stepdad there as well. I think it was because I lacked a father figure for so long, that I accepted him into my life much quicker than most would. Now I'm as close to him as I would a father that had been with me since birth. They were meant for each other though, I knew that. The last good thing I remember is my brother's birth. I was thirteen. My teen years weren't good to me.

I had been quite the manic child for most of my life. Not depressed. Sad sometimes, but not depressed. So my mum kind of hoped that was all it would be. She's told me quite frequently how she never wanted kids in fear that they'd be just as unhappy as she was as a kid. Throughout my life I've learned more about her, piece by piece. First it was just the depression. Then I started learning these different parts, one at a time. Her suicide attempt, coming home drunk and her parents not giving a damn, drug abuse, bulimia. And of course I got her bipolar disorder. Well, I got a lot of it come to think of it. But it started with my bipolar diagnosis. The depression didn't start until my teen years though. After my brother was born, but it had no correlation. I started wearing all black and my school performance went down a notch. Typical happenings. And just the depression alone drove me to self-harm. It was just a nasty fight. We don't fight often. My mum is bipolar and I'm bipolar so it's never been easy but we're happier than a good amount of mothers and daughters are. Still not perfect though. Usually we just annoy each other if there's conflict but this one was bad. I did something and I shouted your typical teenage lines, "I hate you," "I want to die," etc. I ran upstairs, sat on my bed, and one thing alone was on my mind. The scissors on the table.

I hate to think that I'm your cliché self-harmer. But I am. And I won't pretend like I didn't enjoy the attention as a kid. I didn't start for attention, but anything that would take the attention from my brother and give it to me wasn't a bad bonus. Nothing against him. It just made that time of my life a bit more bearable, to let me know that I wasn't invisible.

I was hospitalized that August. I wrote a letter and left it on the counter one night, expressing my feelings and telling her I wanted to kill myself. It was a lie. I knew it was. I've never been the person to even think about suicide. As hard as my life got, I never wanted to kill myself. I wanted a new life, I wanted everything to get better, but I've always known that suicide wouldn't give that to me. I just didn't know what else to say to make my mum realize that I was sick. In the morning I regretted that. I woke up on a school day, at 11:00am. She hadn't woken me up. And once I got up, she brought me to a hospital for evaluation.

It's something I always tell everyone I know who is thinking about hospitalization: if you can help it, stay away. I've never had good experiences with hospitalization. And I feel like after the first time I was made to waste away with this blue bracelet on my arm sitting in these fucking blue chairs and sleeping in this room with lavender walls and turquoise sheets and pillows with plastic pillowcases that I was never the same again. I just got really dark and morbid. And that's best shown in my writing, I was working on a love story before I went into that hospital. And after I got out, I made the story about lust and obsession, and a depressed girl who killed herself because she was raised by a horrible man to be a prostitute. May I still remind you, I was thirteen.

That's when I got my bipolar diagnosis. At first I was really mad. They didn't tell me for weeks after I was discharged. And I really didn't like the idea that I was like my mum. Who at that age would? But then I learned to like it. And now, I'd never want anything else.

We moved the next summer. The office where my stepdad worked was closing. Something about losing money in the company. So we had to move to where the jobs were. Somewhere much bigger, much more promising than a small town. London of course. It was perfect, yes? Lost my best friends. Moved closer to my mum's side of the family. It was great. New house in Camden, about twenty minutes from the house my mum grew up in. About thirty minutes from my aunts house. She took this as an opportunity to make nice with us. I believed her, my mum tolerates her. You can't forget about actual harm your own family did to your daughter, but you can't exactly erase decades of sisterhood, and a now-sober, once-best friend. My mum didn't trust her with me, or me being there, either one. My aunt's pleas that she was "right in the head now" and "sorry for what she did" queued supervised visits for a while until my mum thought she had earned the right to have me by myself. And I forgave her. Some people think I'm crazy for it, some agree with my decision. Other than my mum, she's my closest family member now. But not without creating conflict within my mum of course.

At this point in the story, I think most people expect my aunt to go back on that, but no, she hasn't done anything of the likes. Instead, it was actually her boyfriend of one year at the time. Seemed like a friendly man the first time I met him. I was staying at my aunt's house for the weekend, and while she was out shopping, he came over. Don't think my aunt was expecting him that weekend of course. This is the only part that is at all condensed of my story, for obvious reasons. He touched me. He raped me. He said I looked like her, only twenty years younger. Suppler breasts. More attractive. It was quick. But not painless. And he left, and I just cried. Never said anything about it for months.

That's what put the idea in my head: I could manipulate my body. I could change it all, everything he said about me. I could stop eating. I could slow puberty. I could lose any womanly features I had or was getting. I could become undesirable. Eating maintained the curves. Eating was the enemy.

I was already small. At that point, I was only going to gain one or two inches in height before I was at my full height. My genes were of short to medium sized women with small frames and some of them, eating disorders themselves. My mum's younger sister had issues with anorexia as well. But point being, I didn't need to lose weight. But that was the heaviest I've ever been, the weight I was at fourteen.

It was the domino effect though. Once I moved, everything bad that happened after that all stacked together. None of it happened alone. I had to deal with the self-harm, bipolar disorder, lack of relationships, the sexual abuse, my past, all at the same time. And it just increased. I had been a smoker before. I got that from my mum. Because of the crowd I hung with, my fake friends, I got into drugs as well, and from then on, it felt like my body was deteriorating in every way. I wasn't feeding it, I was shooting up whenever I got the chance. And then came the HIV diagnosis. And so my body was consuming itself, the narcotics surely didn't help, and my damn t-cells were being killed off. Yet I was numb to it all. Of course, then my mum was going through more emotional trauma than I ever had. That's the thing about fatal, incurable conditions. Once you go through the stages of grieving, you're almost numb to it. The people who love you only seem to get more distressed.

Second hospital stay, I was actually there initially only because I was having a hard time coping with the fact that I had been removed from the cast of a musical I was doing in school because I had cut my arm up pretty badly. And my director, who cared for me greatly, told me to take some time off to make myself better. The thing with that, acting was my medicine. That's how I escaped from myself. And losing that, I just couldn't cope with that. I cut myself again, really badly. Bad enough that my mum called an ambulance. So my second hospital stay was initially self-harm. Of course, they noticed the anorexia as well, and when I started going through morphine withdrawal, well, they noticed that too. That's how my parents found out about my ED and the drug abuse. A bit too late. After the rehab, I was on the tubes.

There's another part I don't like to talk about. But I guess it's inevitable when you're abused like I was. I've had multiple, what I call, alternate realities. Watch Sucker Punch or read the book The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls by Emilie Autumn. I'd call it Dissociative Identity Disorder if my psychologist didn't refuse to diagnose it. My mum actually found out about that one before the sexual abuse. And that was the first thing she asked me, "Were you sexually abused?" The first time I even voiced this alternate reality thing was to the only helpful professional I had met at that point, a counsellor at the hospital. And he said he had seen that many times before. It made me feel like I was normal for the first time.

Eventually, my motives behind anorexia flipped. I guess after years of telling myself nothing that happened to me actually happened to me. And when I found out that manipulating your body alone can't stop your greatest fears from happening. Yes, he was a repeat offender. But eventually it was just the control. I couldn't hold on to the steering wheel of my own life. I wanted to see how low I could make the number go. Discovering how easy it was to be able to manipulate this number at your will. Like seeing how long you can stand to hold your breath until you can't ignore your body's urges any more. And I got to 5 stone. 70lbs. That used to be a bragging right. Now it's embarrassing.

After that, it was back and forth between normal eating one day and starving myself the other. At least it was uneventful for the next couple years. A dozen or so hospital stays maybe. But quieter than it had been.

All throughout this, mind you, I had been through seven boyfriends, all just as hurtful and pathetic as the last. Either it was me trying to get over my past so I could seem even half as normal as everyone else. Not yelling every time I felt a man's hand on my shoulder. Not making excuses to not leave the house for anything. Or it was me trying to escape myself.

I met Jay when I was seventeen. I don't know what it was. I was comfortable around him. I don't trust men in my personal life. But I trusted him. He was older. I didn't care. I gave him a chance because he wanted the chance. Two-thirds of the attraction was one-sided though. I was almost glad for the HIV, because it gave me an excuse to not be intimate. It eliminated a problem I'd surely face in a relationship with a man.

Then there was Liz. I met her at Emory, my first week, in one of my classes. She's been one of my closest friends since. She's been through some of the same things and I clung to her for that. She knew what I was going through.

She was the first girl I ever really noticed. In that way. After meeting her though, it became really obvious. I have no clue if I would have been straight had I not been raped. But I don't really care at this point. I have real feelings for women, and that's all that really counts now.

I knew she had similar issues. She was also straight before a particular boyfriend of hers. I told her that I was bicurious and she vowed to help me discover my sexuality. All the while I found myself falling in love with her.

Jay knew it might not work out. I tried though. And it didn't help that I had infidelity in my nature. He was a great friend. I moved here for him, which, considering how I feel for the southern United States, is probably the largest act of love I've ever shown. As much as some people insist, emotional attraction isn't all that matters. The average person needs some of it all for the relationship to work well. Emotional, sexual, and physical attraction. I'm sure of that. We had been together for almost a good two years before the January wedding. I was told it was stupid. And it was. Because right after that, I realized just how hard I fell for Liz. But after my small, non-religious little wedding, something cracked. And what I was so excited for just prior became the only thing in the way of what I wanted. It isn't like I have much of a history of commitment. But that's where this stretch of my life started. We had been sort of dating for months before I finally told Jay. Nothing serious though. I have issues with hurting others as well. I put them before me. So in the end, I would never wait terribly long to tell him, but it wasn't what I wanted to do.

He goes on about how hurt he is and how I'm not really a lesbian. He believed me when I said it, when he had no doubt that I would stay with him. He was completely supportive. I guess, only if he still had me in the end.

I relapsed that June I told him. I dropped the five pounds I had gained and went down to 80lbs again. And the cutting came back.

I can't live alone. It doesn't work like that. I'm a paranoid, psychotic, little girl, and always will be. The professionals were always right. I'm not supposed to live alone. My psychiatrist says so even. I need someone keeping a fucking eye on me. I don't trust myself either, but no one else does anyway. Thankfully, now kicked out of my flat, I am living with Liz. And if you take away the emotional distress and my chronic depression, I'm doing better than I have for a while. I'm keeping myself occupied with my two jobs, our two cats, hers and my three year-old kitty son, the light of my life, one dog, and three rats, my exploration of paganism, and the celebration coming up of having survived 20 years in my skin. I'm still incredibly unhappy, but it's nothing on how it used to be.

I can't really give any tips on self-harm. I kind of just gave up, and let myself recover when I was ready to let go of the self-harm. I don't know if that would ever be the case with anyone else, but it sure was for me. I just lost all interest in that form of self-harm. I've found forms of mental self-harm, but it's been a very long time since I took a blade to my skin, without any of the "withdrawal" and longing and sleepless nights.

I used to go to a ED support group. I just stopped going a month or two before October. I've been up and down ever since. I want to get better, I just had given up on unlearning the habits. How I've been eating for the past six years. I'm forcing myself to go back to my support group though. So I can't say anything about the future, but I can say that I'll keep picking myself up every time I fall, and keep buggering on.



My Name is Lezlee, but everyone who I love calls me Katie, and has since I started cutting. I started cutting in the 7th grade, when it was a dark and exciting thing only heard about in whispers about those kids who were called "Emo" or "ELMO" like a red sesame street character really could show you what self injury is all about. I cut because I was pressured into. God. What a beautiful thing it was. I loved it. I loved the sting, the bite, the blood. I still do to this day. I am addicted to cutting. I am currently in recovery, and I'm starting to see that maybe I can live without this small secret chemical of mine. I write, I draw, I sing, I dance, I cry, I cut and I am now about to graduate Highschool. It's a life long battle, one I don't forsee ending right out of highschool.


I'd say I've been a self injurer for the last 12 years, although the first times I recall hurting myself I didn't acknowledge it as such. (Probably common) I'm currently 24 years old, about to turn 25... so sadly I'm able to say that I've been hurting myself for a little more than half my life. Luckily, I'm able to say that I haven't actively self injured in the last 4 years, but I hardly have a day that I don't think about it, and there's been 3 occasions that I have hurt myself, but it doesn't do anything for me any more. Sadly... I kinda miss the release.

My mom was sick the whole time I was growing up and the older I got, the more apparent it was that she wasn't always going to be around. I had to grow up WAY too fast. I'm talking like... grocery shopping, fixing most if not all the meals for our family, and tending to pets and cleaning house, all before I was even 10. Sad part is that I was the youngest of my siblings, and my dad was around. I shouldn't have had to do so much on my own, but at the time I didn't mind. Looking back, I can see that I was way too stressed and overwhelmed about everything that was going on.

My first acts of self injury were just boredom in my mind. I like fire and I liked melting things... and after getting burned a couple times I found that getting hurt didn't really phase me. I experimented with lots of comparatively innocent forms of self injury just to see what hurt and what felt good. Scratching designs into my legs with straight pins, sliding safety pins under the first layer of skin on my hands and forearms because I liked the way it looked... and seeing how long I could hold handfuls of salt and ice cubes in my palm and against my arms to create light burns.

My mom ended up passing away 2 months before my 14th birthday and I immediately moved in with my grandma and her boyfriend. I didn't particularly like the guy, and in fact the whole family was a little too glad when he died a couple years later, but while he was around he was verbally abusive in ways that just weren't fair. It wasn't my fault that my mom died, and her wishes were for me to live with my grandma, but he was totally hateful toward the fact that I was there.

I'm a big girl, always have been.. but I kinda stopped eating all together after my mom died, and just within a month or two I probably lost around 60 lbs. At 14 yrs old, that put me at 200 lbs instead of 260 and my doctor was concerned that I was borderline anorexic. I also started noticing myself subconsciously digging into my leg with pens or pencils when I was suppose to be doing school work, or choking myself at night so I wouldn't cry. Looking back at the days when I use to draw on my legs with straight pins just for fun, I started lightly carving pictures into my arms and legs with razors to make myself smile as I watched them heal. Usually simple stuff like daisies and the word smile, but somewhere that turned into rapid lines and words like hate me, and I'd cut over them again and again and mess with the scars so they wouldn't heal.

My grandma had me in therapy because she thought it would help me with my mom's death and that's when my grandma and I found out what was going on. The therapist asked me if I had ever hurt myself and I said yes. I wanted help and I wasn't interested in hiding what was going on. I figured if I was honest with my family and this therapist lady, they'd be able to help me stop... but my grandma was scared and asked if I'd like to live with my aunt and uncle because she didn't know how to help. Their solutions to my lack of eating and self injury were to insist that I sit at the table and eat with them at every meal and threaten that if I hurt myself and they found out about it, I wouldn't be able to live with them... so I started hiding my cuts, and my aunt gradually got really obvious about trying to see if I'd been cutting, by suggesting that we use the same fitting room in clothing stores, or conveniently having questions to ask me when she knew I was changing clothes. I also wasn't allowed to be in my room much unless I was changing clothes or sleeping. My aunt would tell me that I needed to cheer up and be sociable.

I was so stressed at times and afraid that she and my uncle really would make me move that I'd hold stuff in and just not talk to them, and at one time I actually woke up in the middle of the night to find that I'd been cutting in my sleep! I was really scared, and on top of my family knowing and not helping... my therapist didn't really understand self injury. She'd behind her desk with a dumbstruck look across her face and say "I just don't know how anybody could want to hurt themselves. I don't know if I'll ever understand. You're a lovely girl and sure you've been through a lot, but that's no reason to hurt your body." All the while... I'm sitting across from her dumbfounded at the thought that anybody ever deemed her creditable to help other people.

Like I said in the beginning, I've been SI free for the last four years. Actually a little longer... after college I stopped for 18 months... almost 2 years, but then relapsed four about six months. I stopped again after waking up one morning to my baby nephew playing in my room. He noticed some cuts healing on my leg and pointed to them, saying "ow?" I immediately started crying as I told him that my leg was ok, and I knew immediately that I couldn't ever let him or any other little one see that I was hurt. I can't like to people. I hate doing it, and I avoid it when ever possible and that goes for children as well as adults. I can handle the fact that I'll have to explain my scars every now and then to people that don't understand, but not new cuts... Not to a baby. I had to stop hurting myself and just learn to deal with my pain.

Unfortunately, I still do think about cutting every day. There are still days where I crave it, and have to call my friends as a distraction, but most days at one point or another... I'll get annoyed at something and be all "ugh, I want to cut" I'll start arguments with myself and go back and forth saying "I need to cut.... no. I want to cut. I need to get back to work... ugh, but I want to. Yes, I want to, but I don't need to." Sometimes I'll yell at myself, and a couple of times I've thrown box cutters across the room because I was just about to use them on myself. I've gotten into fist fights with appliances at work to keep from hurting myself, which ironically defeats the purpose, and I live in fear of a couple of close friends' promises to have me admitted to the psyche ward if I ever act on my thoughts instead of talking to them first.

I don't consider myself fully recovered, and it's a strong physical and emotional effort to maintain progress... but I do believe it's worth it... and I pray every day that I never find myself back in a spot where things are so messed up again.


I am a 16 year old girl, normally a 16 year old girl has friends she loves hanging out with and is constantly smiling but thats not true with me.
Lets start from the beginning. It all started when my granfather passed away when i was 4. I was very close to my grandpa. i believe the doctors killed him. I never trusted doctors after that. yes i was young but i still remember it.I miss him everyday
when i was 6. i started to get bullied reallly bad. I was called ugly fat annoying and a bunch of other things. And this still continues
In 5th grade my brother got a grtl pregnant and was kicked out the house. in 8th grade my other brother ran away. they said they had their reasons for leaving but it tour me up inside
. My dads side of the family never excepted me they hate me and my brothers guts and we've been told that to our faces.
I continued to bullied i finally changed schools in an attempt to escape it. I thought i did.... but i was wrong. The kids i thought were my friends turned on me. i was hit slapped pushed held up against walls and told i was nothing i was pushed into the road and was left there to get ran over. I came home everyday crying with a new bruise or scrape. Thats when my SI started.
That summer i started to starve myself and i did eat i forced myself to throw up i wounded dropping from a healthy 150 to an unhealhy 105.
I changed schools again. it didnt get better the bullying just got worse. i got my first boyfriend in 8th grade. in 9th grade he started abusing me mentally and physically. he raped multiple times he wanted nothing but sex. he became very possesive. i was terrified of him i wanted out i finally got out.
After that my cutting got worse. on top of all that my mom and dad started fighting. i went into a state of depression which i am still in now. me and my mom started fighting everyday when that happened.
I got another boyfriend and thats all he wanted was sex.with everything falling apart right at my eyes something else happened. my great grandma passed away. everyguy that i talked to only wants sex but thats not what i want ive been sexually assaulted a lot.
10th grade my so called family disowned me and my cousin has made my life a living hell. im the whore of the shcool. I'm held up against walls hit slapped told im going to have sex with them. im told im a doscrace ill never amount to anything. me and my mother figths have gotton worse so has my parents. now my brother and me fight. constant fighting constant bullying.
I finaly put a wall up that no one can crash down. if i let no body in how can i get hurt? i cant. i feel alone and numb eeryday
im now in the 10th grade and my cuttings getting worse everyday i have attempted suicide over 10 times. i have been to many therapist and on high dosage of depression pills nothing helps.
i stopped my eating diorder im back up to a healthy 140. but i still struggle with my SI evryday i fight everyday not to cut but all i want is to feel something anything. physicaal pain is so much easier to deal with than to deal with emotional. i cant say that im getting better cause im not im just getting worse.
But maybe just maybe my life will get better


So here it goes i am 18 i have suffered with SI since i was 11 maybe further back, i weirdly have always had a thing for pain. The main thing that started the SI was when my parents divorced it was a horrible time my mom was on the edge of a break down and my father was stretching the divorce out for as long as he could and was a right ass about it to my mother, arguing over every thing we had saying how it should be his.

I was the youngest and i had to grow up fast i got bullied when i start secondary school which was at the same time as the divorce so broke and the SI be came something i relayed on as my whole world came crashing down. i was depressed, i lost my apetite and lived on ice lollys and toast for a whole year in which i lost alot of weight and started the eating disorder. By this time i had started my second year of secdondary school and still being bullied. i made friends out side of school which was one of the factors in the alcohol and drugs which started in may, 2 weeks after my uncles death and the arrival of the step mom.

By the time i started the 3rd year of school i was very depressed the SI had gotten worse and everything i touched fell apart and i was off my face most of the time in school and then for some strange reason people thought i was "cool" because of the fact high and the bullying stopped but i didn't care i didn't have any friends i spent most of my lunches getting high at the back of the school by my self and my evenings locked in my room crying and SI because i felt so lonely.

Towards the end of the year my behaviour had gotten worse i slept through most of my classes if i turned up. i couldn't stand being at school and when i was, i walked out as i was so angry most of the time i never let anyone in. My english teacher had a habbit of pulling me over and asking what was wrong or sending me to her room as she knew i was getting high on my lunch breaks.

Then it was the summer hoildays i spent most of the holidays at my friends houses drinking and getting high as i couldn't stand being at home as my oldest brohter had a thing for beating me when he was pissed off.

But the time it was the 4th year of school i was pretty much at a break down point everything had piled up on me, i was weak, thin, so bail and ill i literally just felt sick all the time. 2 weeks after the start of the school year, i collapsed and my english teacher sat me down and basic told me that she had seen the scars across my arms and how thin i had become and how ill i looked she said that she was worried before the summer and by the time i came back i looked so lifeless and i needed helped. she said that there was an ambulance on its way to take me to the hospital, i resisted.

I was in hospital for 12 weeks where i was diagnosed with serve depression. i was off the drugs and alcohol. My SI was under control and my weight was high enough to be released. Once i was released i had many slip ups which lead me back to hospital, i still have relapses today but its still an on going battle with SI and the eating disorder.


Hello, my name is Clarissa and I am an 18 year old female. My depression probably started when I was about 14. I felt very lonely all the time even though I had many friends. I constantly felt not good enough in anything not smart enough, not talented enough not pretty enough ect. Eventually I started cutting just little cuts on my ankles I didn't want anyone to see. It felt wrong at first but feeling the release of the blood releasing the pain filling it with another pain it felt very good. My stepmother didn't help as there was some kind of power struggle she decided to manifest about who my father loved more. Her and my baby half brother, or me my sister and other brother. By the end of that school year I had decided to get myself a boyfriend a much older boy friend about 4 years older. When I'd decided at that time I was moving with my mother to another nearby town my stepmother decided that she was going to tell me that my father was furious with my decision and didn't love me anymore. He was hurt of course I'd lived with him most of my life and we were very close but it wasn't that bad. During my freshman year of high school I decided to get very sick for the first month of it I honestly now think I was just so scared that I didn't want to do it so I made myself sick. After that though things seemed to be getting better I went to school my boyfriend went to work we came home and ate. Then he decided to join the military, and like the idiots we were, we decided to get engaged over letter. That was when his entire family decided that were going to show just how much they hated me. They sent him horrible letters in boot camp telling him I had another boyfriend and such of course none of it was true. I was sad about it but I had made many friends and they helped me not feel as depressed as I was. Not long after he got out of boot camp and was stationed else where he decided to start cheating on me although now I think he always was. He visited seldom so we became a long distance relationship. Every time I confronted him he swore it wasn't true even though he ignored many phone calls and once a female had answered his phone and told me she was his girl friend. That night I cut myself again but this time more and harder on my thighs. However me being stupid believed him when he said it wasn't true. By the end of that school year I had managed to get myself pregnant with his child. I had gotten an abortion, I still have mixed feelings on it. He didn't even show up even though the clinic was less than an hour away from his base. I broke it all off with him he said he would kill himself if we couldn't be together, I told him not to he obviously didn't mean it. He eventually came and got his stuff and has never spoken to me since. Luckily I had a friend to help though all of it he was very nice and kind unfortunately he was dating my exs sister. Then one day not long after all that drama he just stopped answering his phone eventually I gave up. I decided to play with drugs and alcohol around that summer it got pretty bad, I got really bad, but I gave up on it after my little sister started to notice. It was hard I was a different person I wasn't at the house much I didn't anybody see me sober up. It was very bad. My sophomore year of high school I decided I didn't want to do any of my classes so I went to them and read a book. That was also the year I decided I wasn't skinny enough so throughout that year I weighed anywhere between 85 and 93 pounds. I'm already a very small and short person so a healthy weight for me was 100. I drank a lot of energy drinks and ate a small salad at lunch so my Mum still thought I was eating. I started cutting more at my thighs crying most every night depressed about everything. I still had friends and boyfriends and girlfriends, but none of them knew what was going on. Only my friends AT and N knew about my eating disorder but not my cutting. I loved talking to them, they were helpful and supportive. They didn't tell me eat like people told N all the time, I felt so bad for her because as people with anorexia know telling them to eat just makes them want to eat less. After failing that year I was told I had to live with my father again and go to an alternative school so I wouldn't fail school. I thought by that time I needed help so I decided to try to trust people and I told my father and step mother most of what was going through my head and I showed them my scars. They took me to the doctor he gave me an anti depressant called citalopram which is a generic version of celexa, it helped my mood but the harmful thoughts were still there. So he gave me an anti psychotic called seraquill. They seemed to be working, I wasn't allowed to shave and they hid all the razors and knives in the house so I wasn't tempted. They signed me up with a psychologist who was very nice I enjoyed our time and she helped me set goals but the whole time I never felt a real connection with her. Sometimes I would be angry with them and not eat just to spite them I already didn't eat a lot but I was at a healthy weight. It was wrong and now I realize a horrible thing to have done. Near the end of that school year I started to get very depressed worse than ever before so I broke down and cut myself again. This time deeper near the inside the thigh closer to the artery but not too close I didn't feel ready to give up yet. Not long after that I found out I was pregnant again from the previous rather short relationship, I stressed myself out so much I ended up having a miscarriage. I didn't tell anybody. At this point I'm aware I sound like a slut and yes I was. It depressed me very much I cut hard again but again not too hard and did lots of kind of hard cuts on the top of my thigh. Still I didn't feel quite at that point yet. However I'd been talking to a man the friend I told you of before that just disappeared. I didn't tell anybody I lied to my psychologist even though I think she knew. Thankfully my friend was there for me again. It felt so nice being wanted but it wasn't enough. He did ask me to date him and that calmed me down a bit it felt good to be loved. I still felt depressed though and it wasn't getting any better. I of course only being in relationships with perverted egoists got scared and broke it off with him. I dated another person but after about a month found out I couldn't stand him and realized I had made huge mistake and begged my friend to take me back, luckily and thankfully he did. Around the end of June I couldn't take it anymore I felt like a burden to everyone I felt like there was no point in me being here. So one night after being yelled at about something trivial by my stepmother I decided to grab the anti depressants and anti psychotics I had just refilled the day before and take all of them, that's about 60 pills. I wouldn't say it was her fault for me deciding to kill myself but it was I guess you could say the last straw, what just made me finally give up and go through with it. I lied there on my bed useless, I couldn't stand. I called my boyfriend and asked him how many pills like that I could take and live he told me I should call an ambulance, for some reason I regretted doing what I had done and called one. I couldn't talk in sentences anymore so all I said was "Ambulance please and hung up. I knew they could trace the call. Not long after my stepmother came in the room and asked if I needed and ambulance as they had showed up at the door. I nodded and watched the men come in my room for some reason I thought it was too messy. They asked if I could try to stand everything felt numb I felt like I was floating but couldn't move anything. I tried my hardest but nothing moved nothing even tensed up. So I just looked at one of them and kind of muttered a no and they put me on a stretcher and carried me to the ambulance van. I thought it was quite a spectacle and wished they hadn't come at all. I remember them saying that they couldn't find a pulse and they kept stabbing my arm with a needle trying to get the IV in. I tried to tell them what arm to use and where but they seemed to ignore me. Maybe I didn't actually say it. I remember going into the hospital I remember them undressing me and putting the catheter in it was one the worst feelings in the world. I remember my father and mother being there and telling me they loved me then I remember waking up in a completely different room my mother and father were there and my grandmother. I just thought it was the weirdest thing that I didn't remember falling asleep. My mother told me I had woken up a couple times throughout the night and said things, I didn't remember any of it but she told me I had said I was violently depressed. They hadn't pumped my stomach or anything just pumped a bunch liquids through me I guess it's now more dangerous to pump a stomach than to just let it course through you. It took me several hours to regain any strength, they doctor had wanted me to go a clinic for people who are in extreme danger of committing suicide. So they had a psychologist come in and do an evaluation for it. She asked me simple basic questions like if I still wanted to die ect. I said no. I had watched my father and mother cry because of me wanting to help them it killed me it made me angry, it confused me. All I knew when she was asking those questions is that I would not try to kill myself again. She cleared me as ok but the doctor tried to argue with the evaluator the I should go, then my mother argued with the doctor. In the end I didn't go to the clinic. When I could finally go I was very happy to leave the hospital. I couldn't stand being in there anymore with everyone around me worried. I know this hospital part was very long, but even though wasn't there even twenty four hours it seemed like forever. I wasn't allowed back at my dad's house as my step mother's parents owned it and they had said that was the last straw. I'm still confused on what I had done to them to make them hate me so. I didn't mind I didn't want to live there anymore. I got some of my things and I saw my stepmother and apologized for what I had done and gave her a hug, I've always loved my stepmother she's just impossible to live with and doesn't know how to be a mother. She says she loves me too very much but while only part of me believes it only part of her means it as well. Anyway I stayed the summer at my grandmothers I slept almost all the time waking only for meals and eventually for a few hours time. I wasn't on any medication I felt sick every day. My sister came to visit in the last part of the summer by then I was generally quite a bit better, a better mood too. It had been decided that I was to continue school with my Aunt in another town in the same state. It was ok at first though through the first couple weeks I had no friends. But did make a few and I was excelling in all my classes. But I would still get a little bit sad sometimes and I guess my aunt could not handle it so she said I either needed to live with my mother or get back on medication I wasn't going to take medication again so you know where I went. I tried going to school here around this last October and it was good at first, then what I believe is a tick disorder, or full body tourettes, started acting up really bad I couldn't focus in any of my classes. I had had this problem a little bit before in my life but never this bad. I just thought I was excessively twitchy. I wasn't getting anything done and I started getting sick all the time again. I called my boyfriend and he said they have this thing in his town where you can do your classes and get a high school degree by mail. I thought that was a good Idea so in the beginning of February I told my school was dropping out I had just turned eighteen in December so I could. I moved out of my mother's house so I would stop getting sick because of all the cats. She didn't take it well but we are fine now. I am currently living with my friends and getting a job here very soon. After that I will save up money and transfer over to get an apartment and go live with my boyfriend in his town and finish school. I still feel depressed sometimes, it's kind of bad sometimes, I still see no point in living sometimes, I have to try really hard not to cut myself sometimes, occasionally I can't stand the number on the scale and I eat maybe one thing that day. My bodily tourettes has calmed but it's still pretty bad. I'm in bodily pain every day I used to link it with depression but even when I was really happy it still hurt I think I may have a chronic nerve disorder. So that doesn't really help with feeling happy. I'm not cured of my depressive problems I don't know if I ever will be. I have my boyfriend to help me through everything just like he always has and my friends are helpful when I need them to be. So I think even though I have all these problems that might never go away, I'll find some way to be as happy as I can be. I know this was really long and I thank everyone who took the time to read it. I hope you felt something and got something from it.


hi my names donna and i live in derbyshire england,
here's my story my parents was the most amazing parents anyone could ask for but when i was 10yrs old both my parent were killed in a car accident i can still remember that day sooo clearly, as a result of no one in my family being able to take me and my sister in we were put in to foster care, we were place in different homes,it was ok a first but after a while i was taken to live with another familyand thats where all my problems started. whilst i was living there i was abused sexually,mentaly and physically and there was nothing i could do as no one would listen to me they just said i was lying and making it up for attention.
so with all this anger and pain in me i started to bruse myself on purpose (i felt worthless like no one cared) it seemed to help but after a while it wasn't enough so i started cut,i thought is would be a one time thing which i could stop at anytime i was soo wrong it was like a drug that i needed there was something in my head saying ' you need it ,you cant live without it' so i carried on but after 3yrs in that hell hole my sister reach 18yrs old and became my legal gardian.
she started to noticed that i would alway keep my arms and legs covered so she started to ask questions which i would never answer, but after watching some videos on youtube and reliseing i wasnt the only one who cuts, i got the streneth to tell her everything about the cuting and the reasons behind it she was soo supportive and helped me so much ,she helped me get a conuciler etc also i went to the police (i needed colsure) and after a 6month court case the person who abused me fianlly got sent down and i am now in recovery it has been 9months since i cut i know i have a long way to go but i am know on the right track :)


I'm a fourteen year old girl named Isabelle, here's my story. I grew up with a great life, nothing to complain about and nothing out of the ordinary. Mom and dad loved me, as well as each other. We had a good home and I did well in school. It was more than I could've asked for.
When I was about eight, I got sick at school, strep throat. My mom came home from work early and got me. A few hours after arriving at home, my dad called to let us know he was on his way home, told us he loved us and would be there soon. Maybe a half hour after that, we received another call; my dad had been in an accident. It was a nice day outside, so he had driven his motorcycle to work. He had been going too fast and when he turned, the trees on the side of the road blocked out the other car from his line of vision. We rushed to the hospital, only expecting him to have a broken arm/leg and be upset over his expensive bike being trashed. We were very wrong. He had died in the crash; the other woman in the car he hit only had minor injuries. At first, I was dazed; I barely remember the month following the accident. After a while, it started to sink in. I began developing symptoms of depression, followed by anxiety attacks.
In sixth grade, my depression plummeted. I was bullied and my anxiety increased to an unbearable point. Maybe half way through the school year, I tried to take my life. I failed, obviously, only sustaining a horrible stomach ache from ingesting too many pills. It took me weeks to tell my mother what I had done. When she found out, I was admitted to a psychiatric ward, not against my will. I was discharged, began therapy and started to "work on my problems". Unfortunately, I lied to the therapist, not wanting to discuss my personal issues with someone else. My anxiety got a bit better from transferring into home school but my depression worsened.
I don't remember exactly when the first time I cut myself was, but I remember how. I had been rushing to get ready one afternoon, and while in the shower I started to have an emotional breakdown. I continued trying to get ready, ignoring the fact that I was crying. Accidentally, I cut myself shaving my leg. It took away from the emotional pain I was feeling. After all, you can't pay attention to feeling sad when your leg is burning from water getting into a wound. I then intentionally ran the shaving razor against my skin about five or six times. For a while, I was satisfied, but as time passed I needed more than that. I began cutting my upper legs with kitchen knives and scissors. I then moved to my arms and started using sharper items, razor blades and sharp pocket knives. I also attempted suicide a second time, ingesting around 15-16 sleeping pills, my body regected them and I ended up vomiting a majority of them before my mother found me and forced me to drink water to flush what little was left from my body, she still didn't know about the self injury. I had been cutting for about three months before my mother found the wounds on my arms. She was very supportive and helped me get back into therapy, this time more willingly. I still continued to self harm, not willing to give that part up yet. I had been cutting for about seven or eight months at this point. Finally, I began to accept the help. I've been recovering for a while now and am doing very well. It's been about a month sense I last self harmed. I still think about it every day and resist the urge to cut. I hope that someday I can look back at this and be proud to be able to say that I no longer want to harm myself.




Hi-- I'm Anastasia.
Starting with the background.
Until last year, I attended a small private school in my small hippie town. I had a few very close friends, a wonderful mother, a bastard of a stepfather, and an older sister who tolerated me most of the time. In seventh grade, my stepfather left, but that wasn't what made me start self-injuring. As far as I was concerned, my family life was improved.
I've always tended toward self-harm, I think. When I was little, I would dig my fingernails into my palm when I was upset, or bit my fingers hard when my piano practice was going badly.
But my small private school didn't have a high school, and neither my older sister or I were willing to attend the huge, impersonal public high school. (Someone who was actually attempting to convince me to go provided the encouraging review "it's not actually that bad. The English and History department is terrible, of course, but the math teachers aren't bad. You might even get a lunch period," if that gives you any idea.)
So I started a new school in eighth grade, a school an hour from my town that we drove to every day.
I'm smart. I scored in the 99th percentile on the last standardized test that I took. But I did badly in science class.
That's where it started. I hated the thought of disappointing my mother. She had made so many sacrifices, drove for two hours every day even though she had fibromyalgia, just to make sure that my sister and I had a good education. It was the same year that my grandmother, my mother's mother, turned out to be a cruel narcissist who had become determined to take everything from us.
It was also the same year that my older sister, for no apparent reason, stopped speaking to me except to criticize—and there was nothing that I could do without her finding something wrong with it. She gave a little disdainful shudder every time my skin brushed against hers. She refused to touch my hand when I handed her something, as if I were so disgusting that skin contact would give her some sort of vile disease.
It was the same year that I found out that I am quite shy, and have trouble making friends with people, especially people who have already known each other for years and formed groups of friends.
Most girls go into the bathroom to cry. I went into the bathroom and scratched my wrists until there was blood drying under my fingernails. The pain gave me release, absolution, sanity. Gave me a secret when I was invisible.
It became easy, the thing that I ran to. I got used to hiding it.
I was lucky enough to stumble on Wicca, the religion that I understood, the faith that gave me a reason to stop. I made it through the summer, and then the fall, barely even thinking about it.
It had been nearly a year when I was alone in the house, and flooded with anxiety. I wasn't thinking when I reached for the scissors. After that, I spiraled back into the pattern of excuses and relief. Even though this time I fought, it grew worse. I took apart pencil sharpeners, sliced off my fingernail prying the blades off of disposable razors, found out that I can punch hard enough to leave massive bruises.
I feel so disgusting that I can't stand being in my body. My older sister hasn't said a single kind thing to me for a year. She doesn't see me anymore, only her distorted perception. My mother is wonderful, but I am desperately afraid of disappointing her. She calls me "codependent." I hate the word, but I'm afraid that it's true.
And now, I don't want to stop.
This is, of course, also the year that I fell in love with a girl in my French class.
Another girl.
I don't want to leave behind my self-injury.
There are times when I feel like I'm drowning in self-hatred and swirling anger, white and crumbling like heated metal. Flooded with dim, apathetic depression.
Self-injury saves me from that. Easily. Quickly.
Times when I feel like I'm so disgusting that I can't stand the feeling of being in my own body.
When I feel worthless, deserving of pain and punishment.
I'm willing to pay the price. Willing to be drawn to pain. Willing to write poetry that I can't allow anyone to read. Willing to have to run from my English classroom because the sight of a knife in a movie is so triggering that I'm afraid of what I'll do if I have to look at it.
Maybe, eventually, I'll have the strength to walk away from it and move forward. Maybe in the future, I'll even be able to look behind me at it without running back as if it's a long-lost lover whom I can't live without.
But I'm not there yet. Not even close.


I'm a 13 year old girl with many issues. My problems started in second grade. My only friend moved away and I was forced to find a new one, which I'm not very good at even to this day. In third grade I was sexually assaulted. It had a huge impact on me. I became self conscious and insecure about myself and I became a little depressed. In fourth and fifth grade I was sexually harassed every day by almost every boy in my grade. It didn't help the fact that I was insecure and it made my depression worse. Sixth grade was fine but there was a little bit of bullying for the way I looked or who I hung out with. Seventh grade was by far the worst grade of my life. In the first month of 7th grade, I started dating a boy who I later feel madly in love with. This caused a lot of problems with my friends because they didn't like him. I lost all of my friends. In the second month of the grade I was molested twice. It worsened my depression to an extreme, made me develop and anxiety disorder, and I still have nightmares every night because of it and now I have developed insomnia. I didn't tell anyone for 8 months. In February of that grade, my boyfriend and I broke up which obviously didn't help my depression. In March of that year I started self harming. It started off with burning but then turned into little cuts but now it is gashes and deep wounds, but I am careful because I don't want to end up going to the hospital. My parents knew about it when it first started because my school counselor told them. They didn't do a thing about it except tell me to stop, but we all know that that never works. My counselor called them every few months to tell them that I was still cutting but they still threw it under the rug until my mom was so fed up with it that she called me a bitch. That's when I knew that, to my mother, I was useless. My parents didn't get me therapy until last month because my school counselor called a social worker to force them to get me therapy. That would make it a year since I've been self harming and I'm still no where near recovery. I would actually say I am getting worse. I've developed an eating disorder, BPD, and BDD. My thoughts are that if I can't have control over my cutting, then I will find control over my weight and the food I eat. I know I should give up cutting but I don't want to. I feel as though I need it to function. For me, cutting is like air. I need it to stay alive. I don't know where I would be without it. I know in my future I will be healthy. I don't think it will be too soon but I don't think I'm too far either. I have to be my own hero though, which is hard. But I've seen other people do it so I am almost positive I can and will someday.


I guess what pisses me off the most about my self-injury, is peoples constant statements about that they would never imagine me doing it. Not in a million years, because I was/am such a strong girl and I am not that kind of person. But they can honestly go fuck themselves.

I think that Is my true pain. The feeling of being lonely, because no-one truly knows me. A lot of people either uses me and disposes of me, when it turns out I don't accept being used. They want me to make them laugh, be there for them when times are tough, and listen to all of there sorrows. Because I can do that. And I don't mind doing it, but I need people to be there for me as well. And for some reason, only few will. So I will only keep few people in my life.

I grew up in an area with the sorrows of the world all around me. The raped, the beaten, the depressed and the unloved. And I convinced myself I wasn't one of them. My life were fine, my parents were great, I didn't have problems, so why not help others?
I was wrong. My dear god, I was so wrong...

My parents were divorce, pretty much from my birth, so I grew up in two homes. My fathers and stepmothers, who both abused me mentally my entire childhood, and my father hit me for a few years until my mother threatened him by taking me and my brother away from him. My dad never apologized for the hurt he brought me. He is in denial... about a lot of things.
My mom raised me and my brother by herself, and always convinced us that she was a wonderful and perfect mother. But I grew up so fast, because I was rarely treated like a child and never shielded from anything bad between my mom and dad.
I know that not being treated like a child might sound fine to some. But here is an example of why it always confused me so badly;
We were watching the news, and I might have been around seven years old. There was a report about a man yelling a racial slur to another man, and getting arrested for it. And I said:
"I think it's wrong to treat black people differently, because they are people as well"
My mom said I was a bigot and just as bad as the racist on the news.... I still can't figure out how that was fair. But she was that kind of "fair" a lot...

I often felt ugly and undesirable because I was bullied in school, and my dad and stepmother was so shallow. Anyone who was even remotely overweight, they considered a loser. Not a good example for a lonely self-hating girl.
I buried my bad feelings in books and friendships with people whose problems seemed ten times bigger than mine. I realize now that you can't measure grief in that way.
I buried everything so deep, that only now do I realize how early I started considering suicide and self-mutilation. Maybe from about 10 years old.

But for a long time I also had strong and great friends. We had some of the best times of my life.
I lost most of them to drug addiction and education. I wasn't ready for further education, I kept messing up, and with their "grown up lifes" and boyfriends, there was no place for me.

So I started cutting when I was 16. Everything just collided and I couldn't take it anymore. I felt so alone and useless.
At that time I only had one boyfriend, and I didn't event like him. I was only with him because he wanted me and no-one else did. At least that's what I felt like. It's only now that I realize, girls who had 5 or more boyfriends when they are sixteen, are not more happy than I was. Far from.
When I broke up with my boyfriend, a month after we started dating, I was so frustrated. Because it never meant anything to neither of us. It was like it never mattered.

My first cuts where small. My next ones were deep and longer. I cut for five days, then stopped for four months. Then cut again. Then starting branding myself with lighters over the summer. Then cut myself again.
Roughly a year after I started I stopped. And have been "clean" for 3 years. I afterwards had problems with weed and alcohol, and a few times ED. But not so much anymore.
I have been through 3 years of therapy, and my therapist told me that I don't need her anymore. You trusts that I can handle things by myself now. It makes me feel confident.

I guess my greatest advice is... to realize you are alone in your battle against SI. Because it is a battle against yourself and the demons in your life. You can ask for help, but don't fool yourself thinking that someone out there stronger than you, will lift this off your shoulders. You will have to be strong enough to save yourself from yourself.
Not even a therapist can do that for you. They can guide you, but not drag you through this. The fight is yours.
It is painful, tough, lonely and most of all horrifying to begin with. But hard work pays off. And the harder you work, the stronger you stand.

We are not born strong. We grow to be that if we chose to. Love yourself and help yourself, because you are the best you will ever have.


I guess what pisses me off the most about my self-injury, is peoples constant statements about that they would never imagine me doing it. Not in a million years, because I was/am such a strong girl and I am not that kind of person. But they can honestly go fuck themselves.

I think that Is my true pain. The feeling of being lonely, because no-one truly knows me. A lot of people either uses me and disposes of me, when it turns out I don't accept being used. They want me to make them laugh, be there for them when times are tough, and listen to all of there sorrows. Because I can do that. And I don't mind doing it, but I need people to be there for me as well. And for some reason, only few will. So I will only keep few people in my life.

I grew up in an area with the sorrows of the world all around me. The raped, the beaten, the depressed and the unloved. And I convinced myself I wasn't one of them. My life were fine, my parents were great, I didn't have problems, so why not help others?
I was wrong. My dear god, I was so wrong...

My parents were divorce, pretty much from my birth, so I grew up in two homes. My fathers and stepmothers, who both abused me mentally my entire childhood, and my father hit me for a few years until my mother threatened him by taking me and my brother away from him. My dad never apologized for the hurt he brought me. He is in denial... about a lot of things.
My mom raised me and my brother by herself, and always convinced us that she was a wonderful and perfect mother. But I grew up so fast, because I was rarely treated like a child and never shielded from anything bad between my mom and dad.
I know that not being treated like a child might sound fine to some. But here is an example of why it always confused me so badly;
We were watching the news, and I might have been around seven years old. There was a report about a man yelling a racial slur to another man, and getting arrested for it. And I said:
"I think it's wrong to treat black people differently, because they are people as well"
My mom said I was a bigot and just as bad as the racist on the news.... I still can't figure out how that was fair. But she was that kind of "fair" a lot...

I often felt ugly and undesirable because I was bullied in school, and my dad and stepmother was so shallow. Anyone who was even remotely overweight, they considered a loser. Not a good example for a lonely self-hating girl.
I buried my bad feelings in books and friendships with people whose problems seemed ten times bigger than mine. I realize now that you can't measure grief in that way.
I buried everything so deep, that only now do I realize how early I started considering suicide and self-mutilation. Maybe from about 10 years old.

But for a long time I also had strong and great friends. We had some of the best times of my life.
I lost most of them to drug addiction and education. I wasn't ready for further education, I kept messing up, and with their "grown up lifes" and boyfriends, there was no place for me.

So I started cutting when I was 16. Everything just collided and I couldn't take it anymore. I felt so alone and useless.
At that time I only had one boyfriend, and I didn't event like him. I was only with him because he wanted me and no-one else did. At least that's what I felt like. It's only now that I realize, girls who had 5 or more boyfriends when they are sixteen, are not more happy than I was. Far from.
When I broke up with my boyfriend, a month after we started dating, I was so frustrated. Because it never meant anything to neither of us. It was like it never mattered.

My first cuts where small. My next ones were deep and longer. I cut for five days, then stopped for four months. Then cut again. Then starting branding myself with lighters over the summer. Then cut myself again.
Roughly a year after I started I stopped. And have been "clean" for 3 years. I afterwards had problems with weed and alcohol, and a few times ED. But not so much anymore.
I have been through 3 years of therapy, and my therapist told me that I don't need her anymore. You trusts that I can handle things by myself now. It makes me feel confident.

I guess my greatest advice is... to realize you are alone in your battle against SI. Because it is a battle against yourself and the demons in your life. You can ask for help, but don't fool yourself thinking that someone out there stronger than you, will lift this off your shoulders. You will have to be strong enough to save yourself from yourself.
Not even a therapist can do that for you. They can guide you, but not drag you through this. The fight is yours.
It is painful, tough, lonely and most of all horrifying to begin with. But hard work pays off. And the harder you work, the stronger you stand.

We are not born strong. We grow to be that if we chose to. Love yourself and help yourself, because you are the best you will ever have.


I began cutting almost two years ago when I was 12. Im 14 now. It first started out as scratches on my wrists, because I was afraid of blood. One night after arguing with my abusive older brother, I was so angry that I went deep enough to bleed. Ive never felt such an emotional relief. I soon was caught by a teacher, who told the counselor then my mother, and I pretended I was fine and told her everything she wanted to hear, that it was not a healthy way of releasing my emotions and that it was "wrong". She believed me, but I doubt she even cared at all. I cut myself again the next day, this time on my thigh, I kept cutting my upper thigh, as it was easier to hide. I remember an episode that I had where I couldn't stop crying so I cut deep into my thigh and hips and i remember all of the blood on the floor and the uncontrollable shaking....I wanted to slit my wrists.Right Now in the bathtub. Luckily my good friend, sort of gray-area boyfriend called me and knew I wasnt okay, so I finally told someone about the complicated family dysfunction that has been going on since before I was born. After two years of suffering and keeping everything to myself, I admitted to my doctor I was depressed before she saw all of my hideous scars. I feel a little better, (thank god for Abilify) but I still cannot do anything about my father for now, but pretending to be "good" for the next four years until I'm 18 might just help me survive.


Hi. My name's Gráinne and I'm fifteen years old. My self harm started three or four years ago, I cant quite remember. I first started self harming because it was something I did to punish myself for my dad walking out on my mam, my sister and I thirteen years ago. I was also trying to punish myself for something that happened when I was nine years old. I was walking home form school and had just started to cross the road when a girl standing two steps in front of me got hit by the school bus.It happened right in front of my eyes and I constantly relive that moment. To this day I blame myself for what happened and self harm was a way to punish myself for not having done something to stop what happened. With time I found that self harm was a way for me to escape my emotions when I couldn't cope with them any more. I started self harming more and more as my eating disorder blossomed. I began restricting my food intake about a year and a half ago and as my ED got worse I self harmed more and more. It was the only way I could get through each day. My life was a constant cycle of thinking about food and when I could eat and then hurting myself whenever I did eat. I'm still not entirely sure where my ED originated from. I just remember it creeping up on me and making itself a major part of my life. I started counselling earlier this year for my SH and that lead to me being sent to a specialist for EDs. With the help of many people I am now on the road to recovery from SH and my ED. Sometimes I feel like giving up but then I see how many people have gone through the same thing and have come out the other side and I realise that I have to keep fighting.


My mother was a paranoid schizophrenic. Her symptoms didn't become full-blown until she was in her 20's. While she began experiencing them in college, her symptoms didn't become severe until after she graduated and married our father.
My mother gave birth to fraternal twin girls, my sister and I. I had blonde hair and blue eyes like her, my sister had dark hair and dark eyes like my father. My mother believed a few things here: dark featured people were spawns of Satan, the letter X marked Satan's spawns, and blonde blue-eyed people were guardian angels. My mother named me Angel to mark this in me, and she named my sister Alexa to emphasize the Satan part of her belief.
My father left when we were three, unable to deal with our mother anymore. My sister and I grew up in the same house, but lived very different lives. My sister was hardly ever home and went around with the "bad boys" of the neighborhood. She became very good in fights and could take care of herself well. My mother and her were constantly fighting, mostly about things that were only real to my mother.
My mother showered me with goodness, protecting me from her delusions, such as the FBI coming after us, and evil letters and numbers. She made me speak backwards English to try to "foil the FBI's attempts at finding us." Because of this, I have a strange accent and was unable to speak in the American accent. My sister developed a slight southern accent, as we lived in the south.
When we were sixteen, Alexa was out somewhere, and I was home with our mother as usual. And as usual, she started to hallucinate. But in this hallucination fit, she for some reason tried to kill me. She beat me and tried to strangle me, shouting things I can't remember now. I screamed for her to stop, tried to bring her back to reality, but soon her punches began to hurt so much I ended up just screaming. Alexa was apparently just outside. She ran inside, found us, and fought off my mother easily. She ran me out of the house, for my mother was still hallucinating. She told me what I'd always tried not to believe: that my mother was beyond anyone's help, and we needed to get out of here. We went to the police station and never went back.
I had unintentionally made a promise to my mother when I was young: to protect her from herself. 2 months later, we found out that in another hallucination fit, my mother had shot herself. My sister was relatively unaffected; I was devastated because when it really mattered, I was not there for her.
Many years later, I am still affected by this. My sister is the same capable, sassy, swearing girl she always was, but despite my mother being gone, it is as if she is still here. I am still fluent in her "language." I still have the accent. My personality, molded by her, remains cowardly with a huge need to perfect everything I touch. Be the perfect daughter. I have depression that comes and goes. Right now I am at a high. The lows are awful, making me suicidal and constantly beating myself up over this. Inside I know I could not have done anything. She was indeed beyond my help. She had been for a long time. I still cannot shake the feeling that she would not have died had I been there. I don't know if I will ever be able to heal from this. Even if I can't, though, I have my sister, who has become my best friend and my rock. We're there for each other and have a bond so strong, few others can truly understand it. We've been through more than anyone knows. My schizophrenic mother, my sister's stroke, my father's abandonment, and more. It will never break.
I also have the experience. I know there are others out there in similar situations, and my sister and I am more than willing to help out as much as we can. We've been there and we survived. It's a horrible situation that sometimes requires having to face reality, which may require doing what we did to save ourselves.

Katie H.

My cutting started 2 years ago, during the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school. I started because my dad was yelling at me (like always) and I couldn't handle it anymore. Before, when I was angered or frustrated by him, I went and pierced my ear (I have 8 self-pierced ear piercings). I once red a book simply called 'Cut' and it was about self-harm by cutting. I don't know why, but for some reason it connected in my head to cut when my dad would yell. I told myself the next time my dad yelled at me for some inane thing, I would cut instead of pierce if I got so angered or upset. And that's exactly what I did. I hadn't been cutting for too long before my mom caught on, and sent me to a therapist, who I have been seeing for a year and 4 months. Today, July 10, marks my 5 months clean from cutting. The first week was hard for me to make it through without cutting, but after that it got a little easier. Then two days ago I was so close to cutting (again because of my dad) but I resisted because I really want to get my fish (I set a personal goal for myself: If I go 6 months without cutting, I can get this fish I've been wanting for awhile; 1 year=the industrial piercing I've been wanting for 6 years.) I have to say, if it weren't for the goals set and the "reward" I would give myself, I don't think I would be 5 months clean today.
Katie H.


I started self harming when I was 14 years old and I am now 22. I started my SI because I was bullied in school as well as being bullied by my dad who was an alcoholic. My dad was also verbally abusive and very threatening towards me. He threatened me with a gun as well as threw beer bottles at me. One beer bottle was two inches from hitting me in the head. In 2007 my self harming got so bad because I had to deal with the passing of my father and I to deal with the move back in with my mom and she is an alcoholic and we don't get along at all. When I self harm It makes my problems, depression and my anger go away for a short time. I still self harm to this day and I'm not proud of it.