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    letter from a friend


    • WARNING- THIS IS VERY GRAPHICBUT I HAVE TO BE HONEST.

        

      Please do not call anyone. Please…it will NOT help. Only you can help. I know what is typed below is horrifying, but it is just very detailed. Please please please…just trust me. Please…handle it yourself. Focus on getting me up there. Please…

        

      I figured I’d better not text you. But I am sooooo sorry. At the very least, I owe you an explanation. I told you I was still urgy. I also felt very lonely today. I don’t know why…I hate it. It’s so selfish. You and alex aren’t there for one weekend, and I have a pity party, and end up hurting you two so horribly. I don’t deserve anything from you. Not your help, or your love. It makes me cry to think about what I just did to you, and me. I can’t even face you. Tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll be able to say what I want to now, so I figure I’d better make myself say it now. I have to at least describe what went through my mind. I’m also sorry, because this will sound like a literary work of art. How disgusting.

        

      I tried to be creative. I googled utensils to use, and ways to hurt yourself, but there was nothing good there, so I walked into the kitchen to try to find something. I didn’t want to use a steak knife again, and I really didn’t want to use any dish or silverware piece, because I didn’t want to have to put something that had my blood on it in the dishwasher. I remembered that the bottom drawer in the kitchen is the “tape/box cutter/screwdriver/etc” drawer, so I opened it up. I grabbed the cleanest box cutter, and started to close the drawer. But then I saw a little razor blade replacer dispenser thing. The blade on top was a little dirty, but cleaner that what I’ve seen at mom’s, so I took it off, and then I saw that the ones below it were all brand new, even with the little paper covers on them. I put the dirty one back, and headed back to my room with the cleanest boxcutter, and the new blade. I sat on my bed, and debated between the thin blade, and the wider but still thin boxcutter. I decided I couldn’t pass up using the blade, and that if it worked right, I wouldn’t need the boxcutter. I lifted up my shirt and in the middle of my chest, I gently placed the blade against my skin, and slid it across. It bled. I couldn’t believe how sharp it was. I had used hardly any pressure at all. I placed a kleenex on the little scratch to avoid getting any droplets of blood on my shirt. I put my shirt down, and pressed the blade against my arm. Then it hit me. I realized I couldn’t just carelessly slice up my arm, as I normally would. It’s summer. And I didn’t even bring my watch to dad’s. I would have no cover. I sat there staring into space for a while, contemplating placements. Each time a new location occurred to me, I put the blade there. I pulled my shirt back up, and again, using almost no pressure, let the blade slide across the soft skin. Three more little lines of blood formed. But I knew this would not quench my thirst. I became a bit frustrated, because my mind kept creeping back to my thighs, and I really don’t like cutting on my thighs. My arms are my favorite place to hurt, because it feels so much better. The thirst is easier to quench on my arms, I suppose. But I couldn’t do my arms. If I cut the bottom of my left arm, mom would be able to see it when she walked into my room. If I cut the bottom of my right arm, then tomorrow, if I end up taking mom out to lunch, I will be driving, and she will able to see it when my hands are on the steering wheel. As I was thinking, the blade accidentally touched my left arm. I barely felt it at all, but when I looked back a few moments later, a tiny line of blood had begun to show. I realized how dangerous the new blade was, and realized I needed to be very careful. I couldn’t risk having stray scratches on my body. If I was going to do this, I needed to have it planned. I had risked enough by doing the ones on my chest. I placed the blade down on the nightstand. I continued thinking about locations. I let out a frustrated sigh as I came to the conclusion that I would have to do it on one of my thighs. I would have done my knees, or my calves, but I only brought shorts to dad’s. I hadn’t planned well at all when I left mom’s earlier this evening. But then again, I hadn’t expected to find a razor blade. I decided to do my right thigh, as I am right-handed Since I am not experienced with razor blades, I figured I would have to experiment, and I would need to have a proper angle to do so. I pulled my shorts up as high as they would go, and placed the blade against my skin. I applied barely any pressure, as I did on my chest, and slid the blade against the skin. Nothing happened. I found that the skin is rougher on the thighs, compared to the chest. I tried again, a little harder this time. Still nothing. I became irritated because I knew I would have to work harder to get the cuts I wanted. I pushed even harder this third time, and dragged the blade across my skin. FINALLY, blood. A sick little smile creeped onto my face. I took the kleenex off of my chest, and wiped away the little spot of blood on my thigh. “Again”, I told myself. And again, and again. The several lines began to fill with blood as the seconds passed. But they weren’t thick enough! I couldn’t figure out how to get the blade to work right. I knew I shouldn’t have to be working so hard to get these skimpy slices. I tried going at an angle. Then, just as I was about to give up on the blade, and switch to the boxcutter, it caught. I used the very corner of the blade, as I had been doing, but I apparently had found the correct angle. I felt a different sensation with that cut. I looked down, and saw a thick line of blooding forming. At first I thought I had just crossed another slice, and that the two were combining to make one big line of blood. But then I saw my flesh. Another sick smile creeped onto my face. I did several more cuts in the way I had just discovered, and sighed with relief as bigger lines of blood began to form. The blood was forming faster, and I knew I would have to stop soon. I did two up and down cuts, one on each side of the bloody mess, and five diagonal ones in the middle towards the top. I saw the blood starting to form up into big drops, and it started to drip up my thigh. I panicked for a moment, and thought maybe I had gone too far. I put the blade down. “Enough”, I told myself. I pressed the kleenex onto my skin, and watched the blood sink through it. I pulled it off after a few seconds, assuming I was done. But the up and down one on the left side didn’t seem to be bleeding enough, so I did another beside it. I wiped the blade off, and put it back on the nightstand. I spent the next few minutes dabbing and wiping up my blood. I made a quick trip back into the kitchen to put the boxcutter away, keeping pressure on the cuts with the kleenex. But I left the razor blade on my nightstand, where it still sits. Part of me says that what I’ve done already is going to cause you enough pain, and that I’ve done enough. But the other part says why stop now. I keep looking back at my thigh to “admire my handiwork”, as you call it. I think I need a few more. Just to even it up. It looks so full on the right side that it makes the left side look weak. I know this is sick. But I think if I can just let myself finish, that it will quench my thirst. I swear just a few more, and then I will put it away. Again, please do not call anyone about this. It will only make it worse. I need YOU. I love YOU. I hope you can still love me after this, but I will understand if you don’t. I don’t deserve your love. I don’t deserve any love. I’m just so sorry for doing this to you. You are trying so hard to help me, but I can’t even help myself. I hope you are still willing to help me after tonight. You always say always protect, and love no matter what. The only reason I typed all this tonight is because you always ask ” What were you thinking when you did that? What went through my mind?” Now you know. My thoughts start off with whatever reason my mind has created for me to feel urgy. Then the thoughts become a debate on locations. And then when I start, it becomes artwork, trying to shape it, and curve it, and make it look even. It’s sick. I don’t want this anymore. I want help. I want love. I want someone to make me and help me stop. I just hope you are still willing. Please don’t leave me. That’s what everyone else in my life has done. Please please please stay with me. I need you. I love you. I know you should and probably do hate me for this. But I hope you still love me and want me. Please. I’m so sorry. Now I have to go finish. It’s the only way to quench it. I’m so sorry.

      my friend is an 18 yr old girl. She trusts me to help. one side note about her cutting and trust. we the three of us are working together to help her resolve her issues. recently she had sent me HER knife that she used. she told me it was mine. i knew her cutting would not stop but it was such a major step for her to send me something so personal, i am 4 states away from her. her family knows or at least did, she has gone back to hiding her pain. every night after work my freind and i try to be the support system she needs to help cope and understand what she is doing. there is progress there is hope. she knows she does not like the person who she is cutting. but with love and understanding and time she will be herself again. 

    • Person [female, age 18 , began SI at age 13, high school student]
    •   Report For Self-Harmers Content
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    Thank you for sharing. I am sure we have all improvised devices to use at some point in our journey - isn't that how we all start? But then a routine develops and then certain results are required to placate us. Please be careful when using new implements. Kitchen utensils just don't cut it ;)

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