About six or seven years ago, from the beginning of fifth grade, I began to cut myself with nail clippers(Something along the lines of that). I used to use it as punishment since I was so shy and I made everyone around me so angry because I was that way.
I also became depressed early on when I was ten, leading to many other issues I eventually got over. My best friend was a grade above me, likewise, depressed. She spent most of her time with a group of kids a bit older than me that were in her same class, and we often rode the bus together.
I had told her of my depression one day, and in response she recommended I cut myself. Something about feeling less “numb”? I’m honestly not sure what she was thinks, or in what universe her thoughts came from.
I was always wondering how she could cut, ruin her body, yet it never brought her any benefit.
She recommended cutting to me and said it would make me feel better. That was of course a lie.
I tried it a few weeks after when I felt I deserved it, once with an eraser, where I rubbed off my skin, and second with the clippers where I managed to scar myself, this time the scars were words.In a way, I wanted it to be a punishment, for not living up to my parent’s expectations.
It really was difficult having to hide the scars. I hadn’t intended for them to scar over or not heal. The wounds only became inflamed and protruded, making the words all the more noticeable. I tried to make it heal faster by applying whatever known ointment there was for open wounds. Keeping it clean, covered, for more than a week I wore a scarf around my neck that I had cover my arm whenever I went out to see my family.
I became tired of hiding it from them, so I gave up the scarf idea, going without a jacket and my mother caught sight of the words when we were talking in the yard. She was angry, obviously. I never cried about it. She told me “Why not go all the way instead of halfway?” Those words stung, hurt, but I understood a bit. If not, I managed to find a different meaning from those words. I realized that day, that if I had truly wanted to die, I would have done it a long time ago. Ever since that die, I never cut again.
I realized it didn’t make me feel better, it only gave me this sickening habit of self-harm that was useless and not needed. It was as stupid idea to even try it, I realized.
I think sometimes it’s a bit embarrassing how immature I was compared to now, but it’s a reminder of how much I’ve grown over the years and how much I continue to grow.