Why is complicated. It began when I was living at home. I felt so bitterly alone, I didn’t know how to tell people how depressed I had become. I began slicing my arms, ever so lightly. I also stopped eating. My parents eventually got me help, and I stopped for a year or so. But when I was 18 I had a miscarraige. I didn’t go straight back into SI. I let the depression and anger and helplessness fester. I didn’t allow anyone in. I left home and moved across the country, and felt more alone and isolated than ever. I began with tattoos, dozens of them. Pictures to illustrate my pain. But that wasn’t enough, I took a small razor to my arm and scratched the skin again. That bittersweet release overwhelmed me, just as it had when I was 13.
Now the cutting is a game for me. A twisted game which keeps my mind off of all the other messed up things in my life. I cut when I’m alone to keep my mind off the lonliness. When I go to work or spend time with people it’s always a little game to keep them from finding out. Nothing else matters to me anymore.
Person [female, age 19, began to SI at age 13, employed]