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Darkie (dark_love) wrote in fuckup,
@ 2003-10-13 15:13:00
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    This is the finished essay that I posted two or something weeks ago. Some people were interested in it, other were not. But here it is in any case.

    Many people claim to understand a fight within in a person called self-mutilation. In actuality, they understand very little. I hope that one day, others will understand the importance and severity of self-mutilation in pre-teen, adolescents, and young adults. When a teenager goes through something like this, love and understanding becomes much more important then it is for other kids their age.
    Self-Mutilation can go by many names. Some call it self-harm, self-injury, Para suicidal thoughts, self-injurious behaviors, S.I., S.I.B., and self-abuse. No matter what you call it, it means the same thing someone harming themselves as a punishment or release of negative emotions. They do this through cutting, burning, interfering with healing, breaking bones, castration, pulling out hair, or any other form of hurting themselves.
    Two years ago, the date was around probably March 1, 2001, I broke into a very bad habit. I was so upset, and so depressed that I did not know what to do to get rid of the pain that I held inside. I had heard of people hurting themselves to release tension, so I decided to try it. I took out a safety pin and began digging into my lower right calf. I did this probably about ten times in three different spots. As three bright crimson streams fled down my leg, I felt my tension release and my body felt lighter then it ever had before. I sat there for probably ten minutes until I realized that someone could walk into my room at any moment and see what had happened. This was how it all began, the most important inner struggle of my teenage life.
    Soon I found different ways to let my emotions escape my body through blood. Razors worked the best and exacto-knifes were very nice tools as well. Every time that my negative emotions would get to be too much for me to handle, I would take pleasure in making my skin tear and my blood flow from an open wound. This would once again make me feel alive and happier. Although it was a temporary solution it worked quite well when the task was completed.
    Eventually I wanted to learn more about this mutilating act of the body. Therefore, I began investigating over the Internet. I found various web-sites and web-pages that dealt with self-mutilation. The web sites had ranges of things, from pictures, to statistics, to personal stories and, the psychological aspect of this disorder. I learned many things about this disorder, and I learned that I was not alone, but other people felt they were.
    About two months after the first incident of cutting myself, my Mother began to inquiry about my marks. She would ask if the cat had scratched me again, or if I had fallen. I, of course, would say "yeah, the cat got my again, the little rascal". For a while, this conversation went on, at least once a week for about two months. On Saturday, sometime in early April, my boyfriend approached me in a very hateful manner. He made false accusations and crude comments to me. This encouraged me; when I later got home, carve his name into my skin because he had distressed me so much. That
    there seemed to not be another way out for me. Later that week, when he had seen the imprint, he became nicer and more cautious of how he spoke to me.
    When my parents found out, they became less defensive with me. They were much more mellow then they had ever been before. They seemed to understand that their daughter was going through a very difficult time, and it only took little things to set her on a cutting spree. Slowly, however, one had become so enraged that they had threatened to take away all the razors and let them inspect my body after baths. They told me if any marks were found, there would be serious punishment.
    They never went through with anything they said, but it made a big impact on my self-harming. I became more aware of where I made my cuts, and how deep they went into my skin. Cuts began to appear on parts of my body that were always covered and that would not be seen unless I took off my pants.
    This was a difficult time to get through, especially when my friends found out about this dangerous habit. They were constantly worried about me and would always ask when the last time I had done it was. When I became upset I would go to the bathroom, they followed me to make sure that I did not pull my razor blade out of my purse and plunged it into my skin.
    After a while, I began to feel positive influence from my friends and family. I began to not cut as much, instead, I would write poetry. This was a very hard transition for me because of everything that was going on in my life. I also had my family and
    friends hounding me about my bad habit. Slowly but surely, I weaned down to cutting only once or twice a month. My family and friends understanding and patience with me helped me drive out all the bad feelings that I had inside of me that made me want to cut myself.
    Eventually, three months had passed and I had not cut a single cut into my skin. The trials that I went through to make it those three months were extremely stressful and confusing. Each time I thought of making a new mark into my skin I would look at several different factors. I would look at my little brother and think of how he loves his sister so much, and how he wanted to be like her. I would think about how I had friends at school who were still na?ve and young, who looked up to me for answers, who saw me as a big sister, and a best friend. My family and friends are what helped me, unknowingly, to not cut for there months. My day of failure soon came.
    At school about three days after my third month of not cutting, I failed. People at school decided that it was torment Sarah day at lunch and in the hallways. Snide remarks and a little pushing can make a person go off the edge when they are just hanging on by one hand. So, I went to the bathroom and took out my compact. That day I cut into my skin once more. A familiar sting and a rush of warmth entered my head as I looked at my bleeding arm. After a few minutes, I cleaned it up, pulled down my sleeve, and went back to my lunch table; my friends knew.
    All my friends, about eight of them, looked at me and asked me why. I told them because I could not stand the pain and torment that that day had brought me. The cruelty of the school made me submit to my darkest secret. With hugs and sad smiles they told me it was okay, and a few of them even told me that they had been there before. Even those who had never been to the point to where they mutilated their bodies, and could never agree with it forgave me. Even they hugged me and told me that it was okay, they were all there for me. Some cried, some comforted the crying, some sat there thinking, but we all left lunch that day with a unanimous thought; "A little love and understanding goes a long way, even if you don't agree or understand".

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