I don't like cutting. The whole process (until a point at the end) is not very easy to go through. I don't do it to uphold some image. I'm not trying to impress anyone. I keep it a secret as much as I can. I don't want anyone's pity. I don't like how sometimes the few people that know about it seem overly concerned about my well being. I know it's only because they care, and that's ok, but I can't help to feel like they are just probing me.

The first time I cut was out of frustration and curiosity. I had had a big fight with my parents and felt like I wasn't being treated fairly. I was upset to the point of crying, but I wasn't about to let them see that. I went to the bathroom for privacy. On the counter was an opened bag of shaving razors that belonged to my step sister (they were pink). I used fingernail clippers to snip away the bottom piece of plastic so that the razor's edge was exposed. I rolled up my sleeve and cut my upper arm, figuring it would be easy to conceal. Two parallel lines no more then an inch or two each. I closed my eyes when making each cut. It hurt, but I was surprised at how little pressure you need to use to actually draw blood. And after I had done it, I felt such a rush.

It was just an instant relief. I felt so much better. I didn't care about the fight or anything. I put a band-aid on the cuts, wrapped the razor in some toilet paper and hid it, and that was it. The feeling lasted and I liked it, but not only that, I liked having that band-aid on where nobody could see and that dull small ache just made it real. I had such a sense of accomplishment. Even later when my mom brought up some of the stuff we had fought about, I pressed my fingers over the cut to increase the pain and it helped. This was my secret, my control, my relief, and my punishment.

I continued to cut after that. Usually my upper arms and sometimes my legs above my ankles. I never cut every day. I never cut for no reason. I never cut to feel the pain, but rather the relief that followed. I think I did develop a little bit of a fixation on the blood, but I never cut just to bleed. I never cut with the intent to kill myself, though I thought about it.

My mom finally did find out about it through a series of events that were mostly my own fault... including trashing my room, not being careful to hide the razor blade well, and finally being confronted and confessing. I had to start going to counseling. I can't have a lock on my bathroom anymore, and though I still have one on my bedroom, I'm not allowed to use it. For awhile afterwards I had to show that there were no new cuts, but that turned to just asking over time. "You're not doing that thing anymore are you?" is generally how it goes.

I stopped for five months. At the beginning of the year I started again. I've only done it a handful of times since then. It's considerably less then I use to. I know that this isn't normal. I know that there are other ways to deal with my problems, and I do some of those things sometimes. I know that I am addicted to this. I have urges to cut...and sometimes I follow through with the urges and sometimes I don't. I feel like I can control it. I don't like cutting, but I don't want to stop.