I normally do not talk about things…real things…that bother me but instead keep them bottled up inside until BAM! there it is. I remember being suicidal since I was at least seven years old. I do not remember the first true time that I cut, however, according to my mother, I started cutting my dolls’ hair off and my stuffed animals after my dad left; I was seven. I have been told that I would walk out into the street when a car was coming. The first time, I was very young and was walking after my mom when she had gone across the street to see a neighbor.
The first time I physically and intentionally hurt myself–other than walking or bumping into things–was after a “talk” I had had with my father. He was reminding me that I had until a certain time to move out and I felt so…worthless, unloved, and pathetic. I was crying and–not even thinking about it–grabbed a pair of scissors from a box in my room and slit my wrist. It was nowhere near deep enough, so I cut it again…in the same spot, too. I felt absolutely nothing when I did that. Once it sunk in what I had done, I became hysterical and told someone I thought was my friend. She later told my father and he had me hospitalized. That was three years ago now. I had been prescribed Lunesta at the time and it had been giving me night-terrors causing me to become more suicidal. Even though the doctor took me off of it, it only…subsided. I went on with my life until this past year when things went to hell in a hand basket…again.
I started cutting again in my first class of a new college. We were assigned a project to do and I had done mine on Self-harm. Thinking that I was over the past, even if it still plagued me in the back of my mind with passing/reoccurring thoughts, I was having thoughts about the project and how if it was not perfect I would not pass and would, therefore, not get the job I wanted. I had looked over at my purse and pulled out my mom’s razor that I had taken from her tool box some time before. I remember just holding it and the thoughts becoming a minor buzz in my head. The next thing I new, blood was draining from my arm. I did all of the right things: I had simply asked for a band-aid, told the administration that it was a simple cut from my desk in class and that I would be fine. It had worked until she asked to see the cut. Once she saw how truly bad it was, she had called the director. He made a report and I got a letter from my Psychologist at the time to write me a letter saying that I was fine.
He had put me on Prozac when I had told him from the begin not to put me on it. From the day he ignored me on put me on that confounded medication, I went down hill. I started closing up, isolating myself, hanging out with the wrong people, and of course, I cut more. Although none of the cuts were nearly as bad, I cut more often. It has been at least three months since my last cut. My brother had threatened to have nothing to do with me if I continued cutting so I had stopped. I started journaling more and talking to people…sort of. I also finally broke down the other day and became hysterical. I have a new appointment with my new Psychiatrist on Friday. I like her because she gives a damn and does not act like everyone else in that she understands what is wrong with me–even when I don’t myself–and is genuinely there to help me. She may have to change my meds again though. I don’t think i will ever NOT be suicidal but at least I am trying to make an effort to not self harm anymore; for the sake of my life (my beautiful two-year-old nephew).
Sorry this was so long.
Person Marissa Bevan, 25-year-old female. I began SH at age 7; College student