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    Draco Malfoy

    Sylvia Plath

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    • Sylvia Plath was a renowned poet, short story writer, and author of The Bell Jar, the classic autobiographical novel. She is considered one of the defining writers of the 20th century and her death by suicide in 1963 was the culmination of years of depression that had plagued her on and off since her time at Smith College. 

      In Letters Home, a posthumous publication of correspondence written by Plath during her time at university, her mother writes of an incident that happened after Plath's internship with Mademoiselle in the summer of 1953 but prior to her first suicide attempt:

      One unforgettable morning, I noticed some partially healed gashes on her legs. Upon my horrified questioning, she replied, “I just wanted to see if I had the guts!” Then she grasped my hand—hers was burning hot to the touch—and cried passionately, “Oh, Mother, the world is so rotten! I want to die! Let’s die together!”

      That same summer Plath was found in the crawl space of her home after having gone missing for three days. She had taken sleeping pills. As her relieved family  rejoiced she said, "It was my last act of love." She was treated and then spent the next six months under psychiatric care, and treatment by electroconvulsive therapy and insulin.

      Plath was to continue with school and earned an internship at Cambridge, where she was to meet Ted Hughes, the poet she married and had children with. It was not until 1962 that her depression returned in full force and she attempted to take her own life again. She ultimately succeeded in taking her life in February of 1963. While her children slept several rooms away Plath died of carbon monoxide poisoning after putting her head into a gas oven. She had sealed the rooms between the kitchen and where the children slept with wet cloths. She was 30 years old.

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    • IsaSmyth
      By IsaSmyth
      (Note: This story is completely fictional and written in the style of Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson. It contains detailed description of self harm and suicide so please, please, PLEASE don't read it if you know these things trigger you.)
      What do you do when the world around you rejects you? When the people you trusted lash out at you, just because you’re you. You fight back, right? Or maybe you spite them. But what do you do when the world around you forgets you? When the people you trusted become so few, until their numbers dwindle into nothing. There is nothing you can do. You wonder, and you think, and eventually you start thinking too much. And your mind is a dark and lonely place, because there is nobody left to really, truly talk to. You’ve sunk into oblivion, and you’re desperately trying to swim back to the surface. To break free and breathe. But maybe, in the end, you never get there. Maybe you become like me. Lost. I am Isabella Rosa-Marie Smyth. I died on May 27th. The year of my demise, I do not know. All I remember is the cold ache of losing so much blood that you can’t breathe. And then nothing. Sometimes I wonder if the police ever found the stack of letters I left for the people who held me up. That is, before the people who held me up forgot me. All but one. But then I hurt her. I burned her with the words of my demons, and scarred her with the confessions of my soul. And she ran. Like she should have. I wanted her to stay. Or to come back. Anything to show me that I wasn’t the monster the mirror told me I was. But she never did.  That was my breaking point. The very limit of what I could take. To think that I’d managed to push away the one person who had never left me destroyed me. I truly believe, that in that moment, I died. Not two months later when I sat in my bathtub, bleeding out. I died when I gave up. When my soul had decided, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I died in the way a star dies. I grew bigger and brighter, until I collapsed upon myself in a black hole. The people around me were nothing but helpless little stars swirling around my deadly gravity. And my death was noticed as a star’s death is noticed. Long after I had been dead inside, they finally noticed my light had blinked out.
      Questions. “Where are you?” …. “Why would you leave me here?” ….. Desperation. Begging. ”Please answer” ….. “Echo” ……… “I need you.” ….. “I’m sorry” ….. “Please.” ….. Crying, screaming. “Damn it, how could you do that to me!” ….. “I hate you!” Short clips of sobs so hard, she choked. Fear. “P-please....I’m scared.” …… “E-Echo” …. “P-please, pick up. I don’t want to d-do this.” …. Panic. “I-I can’t stop, Echo.” …. “Please, just pick up!” ….. “I need you!” …. Quiet tears and sniffles. “I-I’m so sorry” Apology after apology after apology. Then weak coughs and slurred words. “Pleasse….I donn’t wanna die, Echo….” Water sloshing. Slower breaths. 3 AM. Silence.
      37. That’s how many times she called me. I sit in the ugly school bathroom, plastic walls painted beige surrounding me. I hold the now silent phone to my ear in shock. Not in despair, I tell myself. Not in despair. She pushed me away, I didn’t leave. The lie comforts me like a blanket in the dark. My shaking hands calm. The itchy, lumpy scream in my throat dissolves. The tears dry up before they can fall. Not my fault. Hers. ‘I couldn’t have stopped her’ I remind myself. ‘Nobody could’ve.’ I stand, almost dropping my phone as it begins to ring. “Hello?” My voice is steadier than I expected. Good. Nobody needs to see the monster/demon/shadow/brokengirl. “Echo, dear, I have some bad news.” My mother. I sigh. “I’m at school, Mum.” She knows that. I know she knows about Isa. She doesn’t know I know. “I know, but this is important.” Important? The word is a gunshot in my mind. Being healthy is important. Being happy is important. Going to school is important. Not the death of a former friend. That is not important. The blanket-lie gets heavier. “I don’t have much time.” I say. Wrong, I have all the time in the world. Isa did too. She threw her time away and now it’s all mine. I have time. “I was going to tell you when you got home, but…” she trails off. Stalling. My leg itches. I scratch. Silence. My mother’s words become a muffled blur. The words rattle around my foggy mind. Alone. Body in the bathtub.  I could’ve saved her. Nobody could’ve saved her. “Echo?” I hang up. She should’ve waited until school was over. Saved her own breath. Alone. Body in the bathtub. I turn my phone off. 37 times. She called 37 times. I could’ve stopped her. She would’ve done it eventually. I walk out. Every step is a heartbeat. Beat. Step. Beat. Step. Faster, faster, faster. Alone. Body in the bathtub. Don’t stop running walking. Beat. Step. Beat. Step. “May I have everyone's attention?” No, no you may not. Beat. Step. Beat. Step. “I need everyone in the auditorium.” Room full of people, no thanks. I need to get out. My brain is screaming and my heart is beating so hard, I'm almost sure that everyone can hear it. The fresh outside air sears my lungs and I am shaking. Not my fault. Not my fault. Nothing I could do, not my fault. The floor is so much closer now and my hands are hot and raw against the cold concrete. I press them firmly against the rock to stop the shaking. I'm alone out here. I think I am, anyway. I look around as my vision gets blurry. Empty. So I let it out. The monster/demon/shadow/brokengirl. She comes in screams and sobs and wild, erratic shudders. She rips up the ground and replaces my skin with tissue paper. Is this how Isa felt? When the first raindrop falls from the dark, cloudy sky, I am quiet. I am quiet and still and invisible. The students walk by, smiling/excited/weightless. They are lucky.
      I wake up shivering. I sit up, grab the blankets off the floor and pull them over me. I lay under the blankets until my feet don't hurt from the cold. The air is hot and and even after I poke my head out of the blankets, I am suffocating. My skin is paper and the beast inside presses against it. It wants out. Out, out, out. So I reach under my bed where the monsters used to sleep until they crawled into my mouth between snores. I close my trembling fingers around the black, velvet jewelry box and then the beast is in control. My hand is steady as a surgeon’s. 1 then 2 then 5 and then there are 20. The blade falls from my fingers. I am calm. I have hurt helped myself. I take a tissue and mop up the crimson life that is making perpendicular lines that cross the straight lines of pain peace that I have drawn on my leg. I breathe. I throw the tissue away and stare at the red on my leg. My skin is too pale. I look like a vampire. I tug the leg of my pajama pants over the cuts, relishing the sting. And then I sleep.
      Death is dark. It is dark and lonely. I didn't expect this. I expected release. I expected. Well. I expected nothingness. There are sounds. Tears. Pain. Close enough to notice but too far away to comprehend. So I give up. Fog clouds my mind. No, not mind, I'm dead. My consciousness then. Death is calm.
      The sun wakes me up with bright, bold, light. I hate it. I stand, wincing as I move my leg. I don't remember doing anything so as I undress, I glance at my thigh. The red lines and the memory of creating them slam back into my brain. I have to clean them. No. Make more. No. Leave them be. I settle for the third option and carefully get dressed. I go downstairs for breakfast, but when the scent of bacon and eggs reaches my nose, I gag. No breakfast today. Isa would have forced it down my throat is dead. I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulders, and decide that it is too heavy. The books and the blanket-lies and the grief/pain/agony/numbness are too much for one girl to carry. So I put the bag down. And I leave. When I enter the halls of hell/prison/highschool, I get sympathetic looks and gossip filled whispers chasing my footsteps. I ignore them. 37. The number pops into my head and the lines itch. I forgot that they itched. In the shadows of my mind, I wonder how many I drew. I tell myself to look at them later. Who knows. Maybe I'll clean them. Isa would make me clean them is dead. I sit at my desk. Not my fault. Nothing I could do. I nobody could've saved her. The blanket gets heavier and thicker. I watch a spider on the ceiling spin her web while the teacher tortures teaches us.
      School ends quickly. My phone remains off, sitting cold and useless in my pocket. 37. 37 times, 37 lines. I spent ten minutes counting. Once, twice, five times. Math is flawed and the only perfection that exists is pain. When I was normal, there was no beast in my chest. No use for the cage of bones and skin. I walk home in silence, my lips glued together by salty tears and willpower. The rain from last night sits in puddles and I avoid them like the plague. I am drowning enough without the help of water. I want to keep my new shoes dry and clean. I populate my mind with airhead thoughts. Shoes and clothes and makeup but all I can muster is ratty sneakers, baggy clothes to hide healing lines and skinny bodies, and makeup to cover the bags under your eyes and the scars on your wrists/legs/arms/skin. I am at home/hell/my house in no time. Mum isn't home. I am lonely glad. I walk in and up the stairs. My stomach is still empty but the hunger pains have long ceased. I don't care. I sit on my bed. And I turn on my phone. When I was normal, I had a friend. Her name was Isa. She was happy. I open the gallery with trembling fingers. And I scroll through photo after photo after photo. There are field trips and vacations and sleepovers. Her arm around my shoulders. My waist. Her hoodie that she didn't take off until we went to a christmas party and I got so cold my lips turned blue. When I was normal, she smelled like vanilla and peppermint, not blood and body odor. There were pictures of sunsets, Isa's favourite, and fluffy clouds. Rainy skies and snowy morning sunrises. Isa loves loved the sky. 37 times. She called me 37 times. By the 37th, she was dead. I throw my phone at the wall with a scream/roar/whimper.
      I don’t notice I’m asleep until I’m awake, sitting up in my bed with air ripping in and out of my lungs, tearing my body apart from the inside. Alone. Body in the bathtub. The rush of the water overriding her breaths. The sound floods my ears the way I imagine the water flooded her lungs. Did she drown herself, I ask myself through the static in my brain. Or maybe she overdosed. On Ibuprofen or maybe her mother’s Vicodin. Maybe even her sleeping pills. Did she open her veins and watch the life drip into the water? I don’t know. I have to know don’t want to know. The silver is out and drawing on the canvas before I can stop it. Red is on the canvas, then my sheets, then my hands. Like a robot, I stand and walk march to the bathroom. The house is quiet as a morgue and dark like the velvety insides of a closed coffin. I turn on the bathroom light and silently close the door. The ceramic counter is stone cold against my naked calf as I raise my crimson covered leg up to the sink. I make the water as hot as I can handle and listen to my pounding heartbeat instead of the screaming of the water as it flows. I thrust my cuts art under the steaming water, biting into my sleeve to stay very very quiet. The liquid fire digs into my skin and burns the beast out of me. When I was normal, showers didn’t sting and razors were for shaving. I return to my cell room. I pull my sheets off of the mattress, balling them up and tossing them into the clothes hamper. I put my pajama pants with them. I take Isa’s my favourite fluffy blanket and wrap it around myself like a cocoon. I curl up on my sheetless bed and bury my face into the blanket. It smells like home her. I miss her She pushed me away. This is her fault my fault. The blanket pressed against my face is wet with my sorrow/pain/guilt/grief. I am asleep again before I can dry my tears.
      I’m not going to school. I decide that the second I open my eyes. Sunlight fills my room and I can hear bird singing in the trees outside my window. The world is happy. I miss hate it. I look at my leg, crisscrossed with red lines/cuts/marks with some places covered in thin, dry, flaky blood. I am ashamed of myself relieved of my pain. When I was a normal girl, we hurt with words and tears, not cuts and blood. I pull the blanket over me again. Mum knocks on the door, opens it, says nothing and leaves. I turn my back to the happy world.
      Halfway into the day, I find my fingers tracing each scar and each line on my legs/arms/skin. I stand for the first time since last night and I want to fall. I contemplate hurling myself to the ground and ripping this house to shreds. Or maybe ripping myself to shreds. But I don’t. I walk, instead, to the kitchen. The smell of coffee from three hours ago lingers and it chokes me. I don’t want the food poison from this kitchen. I’m here for the medkit under the sink. I bend down, ignoring the shrieks of agony that ripple across my skin. I grab the semi clear plastic box and pull. Too hard. The contents of the medical kit explode from the box and a string of curse words crosses my chapped lips. I slowly clean everything up. Metal tweezers fall into the box with a plink. A pack of Benadryl follows them with a rattle. Then tape, scissors, safety pins, gauze, band-aids, thermometer, itch cream, more Benadryl, cough syrup, ibuprofen. The bandages and the antiseptic sit beside me, waiting. I put the kit back under the sink and pick up the bandages and antiseptic. The water in the bottle sloshes quietly, but the sound reverberates in my skull until I’m on my knees. Water sloshing. Shaky breaths. Hers or mine, hers or mine, her breaths or my breaths? Mine now. No, hers. Mine. Hers. I can’t tell I don’t care. What’s real, what isn’t? What is my imagination and what is actually happening? Her breaths, I tell myself, aren’t real. Not anymore. The shadows that lurked in the edges of my vision now dance in the spotlight and I can’t look away. The floor is spinning and I am torn between wanting to run until I die and wanting to sleep until there’s nothing to wake up to. I am here until my mother gets home from work.
      “Echo.” My mother’s voice is like a mosquito buzzing in my ear. I pretend not to notice while I swim in my thoughts. When I was normal, I listened when my mother spoke and I valued everything she said. While she screams and shouts, I sit and pretend to listen. Time passes and suddenly her hands are on my shoulders and she is shaking me. “Echo!” She says my name sharply and I flinch. She has my attention now. My eyes find the clock. She has been talking for fifteen minutes. “What.” I mutter, wishing that I wouldn’t have to talk. Wouldn’t have to listen. “Why are the medical supplies all over the floor? Have you been injured?” Her motherly concern is touching sickening. I shake my head. “A cat got run over.” I lie smoothly, and she doesn’t believe me. But she doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she stands and walks to her room. “Clean up the mess.” she says tiredly. I am ruining my mother’s life. She is working two jobs to pay for my therapy. She is still paying the hospital bills from my trips to the emergency room. Tetanus. Blood poisoning. Staph infections. My father left the day he saw the cuts/scars/marks/mistakes. My mother lost her friends. Her family. Her once decent job that she gave up because she couldn’t fight the fog in her lonely mind enough to get out of bed. My mother lost everything. Just so that she could hold onto me. I stand and I ignore the mess. And then I leave. A broken home with a broken girl and broken mother. A broken family with broken hearts and fake smiles. I let my feet carry me away.
      I don’t know what to expect as I knock on the door of a dead girl’s home. Do I expect her to show up? Do I expect her mother to open the door with quivering lips and watery eyes? Do I expect anyone to answer the door? It doesn’t matter what I expect, nobody comes to the door. Nobody is home. So when the door opens as I turn away, I am shocked. I turn back, begging for the voice of my friend. Begging for her laugh and her slight accent and her scent. The doorway is empty. The house is dark and the air is heavy with sorrow. I step inside.
      I leave my shoes at the door because Isa’s mother hates cleaning up after all the mud. I pad through the house on bare feet, breathing air that smells like pain. For a moment, I think I’m going crazy. Nobody has been here for days. So why was the door open? Who cares, I would’ve been outside for hours if it wasn’t. My feet touch soft carpet and my mind snaps back to attention. I have been walking and thinking again. When I see where I am, I want to puke/die/run/cry. Posters and drawings are taped to the white walls and glow in the dark stars create a galaxy in the ceiling. Isa’s bed is neatly made, penguin plushies all snuggled into each other like the family Isa and I never had. Her mirror has been covered in layers of sticky notes so dense that I can’t see the glass behind them. I find myself reading them before I even realise how close I am to the mirror. What she’s written in her choppy handwriting forces a whimper out of my lips.
      ‘Clean your cuts’
      ‘Take a shower’
      ‘Apologize to Echo’
      ‘It’s been a week since you showered, so go take a f***ing shower’
      ‘Stop eating so many cookies, dumbass’
      ‘Apologize to Echo!!!’
      I turn away. I can’t look away anymore. I trail my fingers along the white walls of her room, tracing the lines in the drawings taped to them. I feel my heart beating wildly as I get to her bookshelf. She loves loved books. I scan the titles, the words blurring as my eyes fill with tears. I find what I’m looking for almost instantly. I don’t have to read the words scrawled on the binding. It’s the only book that feels softer, more used than the others. It’s the only book that seems to matter. I open the scrapbook, resting in on my leg. The heavy book presses into my thigh and I try not to notice care. I move to the book to my other leg. I flip through the pages slowly, my eyes taking in the photos like a dry sponge takes in water. My tears drip onto the book and I can’t bring myself to wipe them away. When I was a normal girl, I met a girl named Isa. She was quiet. She spoke rarely and her words were too big for me to understand. She walked like someone had taped a ruler to her back. She was quiet and stiff but her smile was brighter than the sun. She laughed loud and talked softly. I turn the page. Christmas. The first one, an explosion of colour and smiles and her eyes are blue and she smiles at the camera while I stuff my face with her homemade chocolate chip cookies. The second one. We have bows on our heads and crumpled wrapping paper in our laps, laughing too hard to notice our observer. The third one. She wears a hoodie and jeans instead of a dress and I curl up to her in a plaid skirt, leggings, and black sweater that dwarfs my body. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes and my eyes don’t even seem real. The fourth one. Her hoodie is on me now; my lips are blue and her arms are around my waist, hidden in the folds of my clothes while she rests her head on my shoulder. We smile like dolls and let them take our pretty, pretty picture. When I was normal, I had a friend named Isa. We spent holidays together making cookies until we smelled like cinnamon no matter how many showers we took. I turn the page. New Year’s Eve. I don’t remember these pictures, yet I am in them. We drape ourselves in fairy lights as we watch movies. At midnight, she pours me wine and doesn’t stop until I am drunk. We are in short sleeves and we are happy and free. For a while. When I was normal, we drank orange juice and smoothies, not wine and whiskey. I turn the page. Valentine’s day. In these pictures, we are in my room. We are in pajamas with popcorn. We have no one to spend this holiday with so we spend it with each other. The first pictures are friendly with a few glances. But then the mood changes. We are closer. Isa plays with my hair while I use her phone to take pictures. That last Valentine’s Day picture is taken while she sleeps. Her lips are parted and her face is peaceful. I kiss her forehead, take the picture, and show her when she wakes up. She tells me that it’s the only picture of her she likes. I ask her why she keeps the other pictures. She smiles more than she has in weeks. And she tells me in  a whisper….. She likes them because I’m in them. I call her cheesy and she laughs. And then she kisses me. When I was normal, I had a friend named Isa. She liked the quiet, so I loved her quietly. She loved me more than I deserved. I loved her more than I thought anyone could love somebody. I still will always love her. I flip through empty pages. The last page in the scrapbook has only two pictures. March 3rd. My birthday. And April 30th. Isa’s birthday. In both pictures, we are smiling. In both pictures, our hands are clasped together. In both pictures, we are faking. The happiness isn’t completely real. We are two sad, sad little girls with broken hearts whose pieces match perfectly. I close the scrapbook. My eyes sting with tears and my hands are trembling. The book drops to the floor and I hurl my body onto Isa’s bed. Her blankets and mattress let out a silent sigh and the scent of peppermint, vanilla, and sweet strawberries surrounds me. The smell works like a drug, and my tired, injured, shaky body finally relaxes for the first time in days. I breathe; not heavily or shakily, but a long, soft sigh that flows out of my lips. When I was normal, I had a girlfriend. Her scent was addicting and her arms were home. We loved life and we loved each other. And then, all of a sudden, we weren’t normal anymore. We became something dark, twisted, beautifully sad and yet….We were something else too. We were love and hope and joy; a rainbow after a storm. We were us, a word that cannot be defined by words but by emotions and actions and the habits we formed around each other. We were undefinable. We were us.
      I wake up a week later. The harsh odor of antiseptic and death floods my senses. The scratchy sheets and hard mattress. I know where I am. I turn my head. Left, right. White surrounds me. The light burns. I keep my eyes open. I hate hospitals. No, I hate everything myself. I don’t think to ask why I’m here until a motherly looking nurse checks my vitals. But I can’t even speak. Somehow, the nurse knows what I want to say. “You slipped into a small coma, sweetheart.” she says kindly. “A….A coma?” My voice is quiet and hoarse, barely there at all. The nurse, her name is Abbie, nods. “Your friend’s parents found you. You’ve been here for a week.” she informs me with a simple smile. I fight the urge to roll over, knowing it will hurt. I roll over anyway, the spike of pain in my thigh making my heart rate jump for a moment. I ignore it, and so does the nurse Abbie. “Isa is dead.” I say quietly. She smiles sadly and her next words hit me the way I imagine a freight train would hit a car. I am blown away/scared/shocked/relieved. The words spin around my head as I rest my feet on the floor then put my weight on them. Abbie tries to stop me, but I am up. I am up and I am marching/walking/running/sprinting. Alive. Alive, alive, alive, alive, alive. Isabella Smyth. Alive, alive, alive, alive. Close call. Alive. Almost didn’t make it. Alive. The floor is cold and the back of my hospital gown is nonexistent. Alive. She is alive. I skid to a stop in room….room seven? Room thirty? I can’t tell and I don’t care. I see her. I hear her breaths. I hear my breaths. Our breaths. Mine fast, hers slow. My hand is on her hand/arm/shoulder/neck/cheek. There is a pulse and there is warmth and she is alive. Her blue/green/grey/beautiful eyes stare up at me and her chapped lips crack when she smiles. Her wrists and arms are bandaged up to her armpits and her thighs are bandaged. She is close to naked, but there is a thing gown resting over her chest and stomach. No, just her chest. Her stomach is bandaged too. There are bandages everywhere, she breathes from a machine, her skin is pale and I can see her blue and purple veins. She looks terrible. But she is alive. I wipe my tears away so I can still see her. The blur takes her away and I wipe the tears again. I realise I am shaking so I sit/collapse/rest on the side of her bed. Her bandaged arms snake around my thin waist and Isa pulls me against her until we are like puzzle pieces. Her heart beats against my back and her hands are gently pressing into my lower stomach. Her warm, soft breaths hit against the back of my neck and my hair tickles her nose. I want to slap/hug/choke/kiss her. So instead I let her hold me with her skin kissing mine. She is warm and safe and alive. I am home. All the pieces of myself that floated away while she was gone flutter back into place. Her first words make a lump appear in my throat. “I missed you.” Her voice is hoarse like mine. I barely speak, but what I say makes her pull me closer. “I needed you.” I whimper. She nods. “I needed you too. I still do.” she murmurs, letting her lips place lingering butterfly kisses up my neck. I’ll always need you, I think. But when her lips crack into a bigger smile, I realise that I said it out loud. She turns me around so my chest presses against hers and our stomachs/knees/hearts touch. She tilts her head so our lips press together lightly and she whispers against my lips. “I love you.” My heart flutters and my lips part. “A-always and forever, right?” I say weakly. She does this to me. Makes my body weak. But my heart beats stronger than it has in months and my mind is clearer than it’s been for almost a year. She smiles against my lips, whispering life into my lungs. “Always and forever.” I close my eyes. And I fall asleep in her arms. My skin doesn’t itch and my face is dry. She smells like the hospital but there is a hint of vanilla and peppermint and strawberries that comforts me. In the fog of the land between sleeping and waking, I hear myself mumble. “I love you.” I feel her smile and press her lips to my forehead. And then I am asleep.
    • DesperateInsomniac
      By DesperateInsomniac
      I've been clean (self harm free) for just over a year. Which is a big step for just about anyone, right? But I still fight the urges to find the sharpest object and use it on a daily basis. Usually it's not so bad and I can distract myself with baking or video games or even just taking with a friend. It didn't work, not today. 
      I was sitting at home doing homework, when out of the blue an urge so strong had me bolting to the bathroom looking for something, anything. Now we don't keep anything in the house that I can easily use (both my roommates are aware of my past self harm) but it scared me. And not only did it scare me but it scared my friend. And she's the whole reason I stopped in the first place. It wasn't that I wanted to hurt myself that scared me, I'm more than used to that feeling but the pure need, the itch so deep it felt like I wouldn't have been able to breathe unless I hurt myself, that's what scared me. 
      Things like this make me feel like I'll never be okay okay. Like I screwed up my entire life...  And that terrifies me
    • theyhateuscuztheyanus
      By theyhateuscuztheyanus
      I don't self Harm in the converntional way, I scratch hard to the point of bleeding. I'm some Emo kid, I started because of my rape. I couldn't handle the feeling. I want to stop but I keep scraping over them. It's a lot of small scratches on the back of my hands near my wrists, but still on my hands. I'm know for wearing gloves all the time even before my self harm (I play piano and sometimes the speed of the song results in me brushing my finger on the piano keys). My body heals very well, and my dark dark brown skin hides a lot of discoloration after a year of so. My only problem is, will people recognized them as self harm? They're only scrapes, people only really recognize self harm as cuts, unless they know a bit more about self harm. Please give me some insight, I'm very distressed- 
    • alwayseponine
      By alwayseponine
      I've been cutting for like 16 years now and last night for the 1st time ever I hit what I believe was an artery (I did some research, but I don't feel it productive to go in to that info). I lost a significant amount of blood but was able to stop bleeding and care for the wound appropriately. I didn't go to the er bc it's a tiny wound and there's little they can do for blood loss unless it's severe. I tried drinking extra fluids today but all my muscles hurt as if I worked out (hah). I'm not dizzy and my heart rate isn't up. The only real problem I'm having is tingling in my fingers and toes and cold feet. Nothing really indicative of a major issue. So, for anyone who's experienced marked blood loss but not to transfusion level, is there some type of medical treatment? I don't want to go to the dr if they're just going to say drink fluids,  add iron, take it easy and watch for infection. I've had an experience of going to urgent care to get glued and then ending up on a psych unit when I wasn't even suicidal. Or gravely disabled or a danger to others, so I'm hesitant. Any insight would be much appreciated. 
    • Boshee
      By Boshee
      Hi, my name is Boshee and I am new here and wish to find some support for self abuse. I have self abused most of my life. I just have recently figured out that I really need help (answers). That perhaps someone can take me seriously. I am probably much older than most, and hope that won't be a problem. 

About Us

Welcome to self-injury.net. We are a support community for self-harmers and also provide information on self-harm, creative works, media lists, lists of resources (helplines, textlines, mental health apps, therapists, etc.), etc. We focus on self-injury but a number of other mental health issues are included.


  • self-injury.net
  • Founded
  • Description
  • self-injury.net is a self-harm community and resource founded in 1999. Provides support, resources, and information on self-harm.
  • Founder
    Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy