In sixth grade, my school had this rush of kids self-harming. I'm not entirely sure what caused it, but it felt like at least half of the kids in my class started to cut their wrists. Sometimes it was the people closest to me. It felt like every day I was talking to another friend and trying to convince them to stop. Trying to find a way to keep them going.
I never really told them that I was self-harming too.
My anxiety and insomnia and depression were barely starting and it was just so much to try to deal with on top of trying to help my friends and the problems I was facing at home.
It started really small: cuts on my fingertips nobody would notice.
As the time passed and nobody noticed or said anything if I told them, the cuts got bigger and deeper and they changed.
See when I started it was a cry for help. I had this hope that somebody would notice and ask me what was wrong. That they would encourage me to get help or force me to. But nobody noticed and the person I told never told anyone or checked on me. So I just started feeling like nobody cared. My anxiety got worse and my depression hit an all-time high especially as I faced an entirely new school system with none of my old friends.
Suddenly, the cuts weren't about attention. They were about coping. As this continual cycle of feeling absolutely empty to feeling full-blown rage and pain rocking my body hit me month after month I would turn to cutting to help me handle my emotions. Physical pain was better than feeling nothing or feeling too much. It was the one thing I thought I could control.
And it kept going for years.
From sixth grade until my sophomore year of college. Eight years of cuts criss-cross my left arm and in all that time only one person ever noticed. But it was after I had already, really stopped and had started getting professional help.
Before that, I would stop for a few months, but then a really bad bout of depression or anxiety would hit and I'd be pulling out my razor from where I had it hidden.
It's not like it felt good. It actually made me feel terrible. Like I was a broken human who would never be okay. Who no one would ever love. And while it felt good in the moment, in the hours afterward I'd be hit with this incredible feeling of regret and disgust. Even now, I struggle with accepting what I did. It was a part of who I was for so long, even if no one knew.
If you or anyone you know is struggling with self-harm or might be thinking of self-harming, please don't. Please, reach out. Try to get help. If you are looking for a sign to stop, for somebody who cares enough to notice, this is that sign. I care. I am here. I noticed.
If you or someone you know is thinking of suicide or self-harming, call 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255). Please.
