A story of self harmer.

by Diary of a Fat English Girl

Tears fall fiercely down her cheeks,
Thoughts riot through her mind,
Nails dent and make her arms,
Blood flows gently from her skin,
Tears slow down,
Thoughts are calm,
Another episode,
Another scar,
The story of a self harmer.

Compass – Scissors – Razor Blade – Knife – Carving Knife.

The order in which it progressed.

I have never cut myself to die (bar one occasion) I have cut myself to release.
To apply pain to myself is a matter of control, by controlling inflicted pain, I can control other pain. To see the blood run freely from my skin is a release, relaxing.
It is only in recent years that the guilt sets in after action.

When I was at school many girls hurt themselves you could see their cuts all on the arms and wrists, happily showing them off like a battle scar, something to be proud of.
Mine were on my legs, my shoulders, my upper arms, my chest, my ankles, my stomach. I would mark my wrists and arms when I ran out of space elsewhere.

It wasn’t a trophy, a celebratory moment, a right of passage all adolescents go through, it was a coping mechanism. I didn’t want to show off. I didn’t want people knowing.

I remember once I stormed out of a classroom and my teacher grabbed my upper arm to stop me from running away, as his fingers gripped my arm I felt the skin break, I flinched in pain, he let go too late, the blood from my recent attack began weeping through my school shirt.
He sent me to his office and told me to wait for him, I openly said I was going to smoke and I would go there afterwards.
He didn’t deny me this. He nodded and said he would meet me there. This was to be one of the most awkward moments of my life. When I reached his office, he had invited my favourite teacher there also. She had sad eyes though looking at me with a big warm smile. She never understood what all the teachers complained about, I was the perfect student in her class, I didn’t want to disappoint her, I loved her class.

They said they wanted to talk to me.
I knew what this was about, I couldn’t bare to look at them. I ignored every question they asked. Sitting silently. I couldn’t lie myself out of this the blood stains on my shirt. I tried, they didn’t believe me. They asked to see my arm so they could clean it up. I refused. They made it clear that they were trying to help and if I refused they would tell my mother to seek a psychiatrist at their earliest convenience.
I didn’t want this. My mother couldn’t know she at this point was 30+ years into her bulimia with serious depression I could not be another burden for her mental health.

My favourite teacher had the first aid box in hand as she persuaded me to let her help.

I took my shirt off (I was wearing something underneath) and heard the sharp intake of breath as their eyes found the marks all over me, my mutilated body. Silent tears ran down my teachers face as she cleaned me up.

She told my mother anyway.
That night was to be my first suicide attempt. As mentioned previously.

The story of a self harmer is not over but at a stand still for now.