This is my story, the way I want to write it. If you are offended by how I perceived things, I'm sorry, write your own life story. I wrote this, the way I experienced it. No negative feedback please. Thank you.
My name is Amanda. I am 18 and I am a recovered self-injurer.
It all started when I was in the 7th grade, a constant magnet for torture because my bigger size was a target for taunts and hateful words both at school and home. It didn't start out that serious, in fact it started out as nothing more than an 'experiment', how much i could do, without calling attention to myself. These cuts were just little scratches, all I could do with a razor in it's protective sheath of plastic, the safety mechanism of the shaving razor. My mom, who I was living with was oblivious to my "cuts", or maybe she just didn't want to acccept it. I'm just gonna go ahead and say now that I was a christian during all this, I was not, however close to Jesus, choosing to release my pain, brokenness and hate for the world I lived in by cutting, bruising, anything that brought me pain. Any kind of distraction from the emotional hurt brought relief. The day it progressed to more serious cuts was the day I figured out how to take the plastic safeguards off the razor. That night I cut my first cut that should have gotten stitches. A short time after doing it, I realized I would need a cover story for my mom. I told her I had been holding my cat, our dog had scared him and scratched me really bad, but it was ok, because I would keep it clean. The first of many lies and excuses I would make for my cuts and scars.
The summer before my 8th grade year I visited my dad in North Carolina (I was born there, and moved to Texas with my mom and two brothers after my parents divorced), and had such a good time I decided I would live with him. Much to my moms' protest, I left. 3 months into the school year, I was forced to choose between my dad or my best friend I chose the friend. I then moved back to texas to finish my 8th grade year, and even though I was so sure that my friend would not move if I moved back (that's what her mom told her) January 1st 2004 rolls around and, my friend, her sister and her mom drove out of my life. This was a devastating blow, and to face the second half of the school year without my partner in crime so to speak wore me down. Cutting became something I tried to control and sometimes I could, most of the time I couldn't and my body tells that story. So depression, which had been lurking around me since 6th grade, rolled over me like a sheet of hopelessness after my friend left.
8th grade came to a close, and I am determined to go back to my dad and live there. So I moved, again. To start my high school career, to get back to just me and my dad. Only when I got back, I realized (to my chagrin) that he had found a woman and was dating her, no more just me and my dad. For quite awhile I was bitter and jealous because I felt like she had taken my dad from her. This was the time, my dad's time was monopolized by her. And because of that, I was allowed to roam free with his girlfriends' daughters. They were nice, and we got along, and they introduced me to their friends, who were consequently not the best people I should have been hanging around. But because I was only 15 or 16, the badass boy attitude appealed to me. And I started smoking pot and cigarettes. This continued until before Christmas of that year, when my dad saw (rather I "let" him see) my cuts and scars, because I was so tired of hiding my arms and legs. This began a long conversation in which I explained everything. He scheduled an appointment with my doctor, who evaluated me and then referred me to the psychaitric wing of a hospital about an hour from the house. I'm gonna be straight up with you, the reader, I was terrified at the thought of having to stay in a mental facility, or having to have doctors look at me like I was just a basket case. However, when I went to the hospital the day after I was referred, everyone was really cordial, and treated me like I wasn't crazy. The plan had been to admit me into the regular hospital, just the psychiatric wing, well, it was full so we were given directions to a private hospital, it was strictly a psychiatric facility, one half for minors, juveniles and young adults and the other half was adults. I was in there for 4 days. The short time period accounts for the fact that my mom had badgered my doctor to allow her to talk to me whenever she felt like it, even during time when we weren't supposed to have phone privileges. She did nothing but badger me to come back to Texas. I finally snapped, and lied to my doctor telling him I was definitely ready to leave, when in reality I was nowhere close. After getting out, I resumed school, and continued taking my anti-depression pills. February of 2005 I went back to Texas, was home-schooled for the remainder of the school year, started my sophomore year in public high school, and kept my chin up. I had my fair share of mistakes but I was a lot better. That is, until my mom uprooted our family, changed school districts in the middle of the school year. Things started to slowly go downhill. My golden retriever who I had had for over 5 years started having seizures. ( you have to understand that my dog was my angel, the one that kept me going when I was in north carolina and was contemplating suicide multiple times). The new high school was massive to me, with almost 2500 students, I felt lost and alone. I think I had maybe one friend that year, once again I was the target of taunts and mean looks and laughter at my expense. February 7th 2006 rolls around, a wednesday, we were on our winter break. And since the rodeo was during that week, my mom had planned on taking us a little later in the day. The day before my dog (Sandie) had suffered multiple, heart-wrenching seizures rendering her semi-conscious. She had been improving when I left her in the pantry to sleep around 2 AM and I was confident she would be ok. I awoke that Wednesday at 9:04 AM to find that even though she was warm, she had died. I became numb, angry, heart-broken for my guardian angel. Cutting was what I fell back on. Several times soon after I lost her, I was sure I had lost my sanity. I had a really hard time coping. No one that knows me now or did back then couldn't fathom how hard it was for me to function. I have slowly gotten better, learning to come to grips with her death.
December 2nd 2007 rolls around, and I am on a charter bus coming back from a Young Life retreat from out in the middle of nowhere, so I had my phone off to conserve its battery. When I turned it on, I had a voicemail from a friend that knew I wouldn't be able to talk. The voicemail contained few words, but some of the worst news I had heard in awhile. One of my friends, had died in a car crash the day before. I couldn't stop crying as the bus rumbled back to the drop off point. Once again, death reared its ugly head in my life. This time, when I tried to cut, to feel something it didn't work, instead I felt even more miserable. Finally I couldn't take anymore and cried out to my youth pastor to help me. I came back to God when I needed Him the most. He was there for me as I sobbed for my friend that had a great future for her, and for her mom, whose only daughter had just passed. And sooner than I thought I found myself looking towards the future and less to the past like I had done when I had been younger. I had applied to and been accepted to Texas Tech University to major in animal science on the pre-vet track. I still have to deal with stress and life's battles, but now I turn to my writing, or friends to for help instead of the blade. It's been a long road of recovery, but I am stronger because of it.
My body is littered with scars, but for the most part, I have risen above them, and I depicted who I was, not what my scars make me. Do not judge a book by it's cover, nor should you judge a person by their scars. Self-injury was part of who I WAS not who I am. If I could give one self-injurer a piece of advice it would be this; there is always help out there for you, you are not alone in your struggle and if you feel like you have no where to turn, God's arms are always open.
PS this is the story I submitted to an author who is publishing self-injurers stories in a book.
Chatboard (0)