I self-injure. I do. I don’t enjoy it, but I do it. I have since fifth grade. I thought at one point that I was suicidal, that I wanted to die; then I thought that I just wanted attention, that it was a cry for help; now I know that this is a serious psychological problem that is beyond my control. I am not alone—millions of Americans self-injure. Doing so does not make you suicidal, a masochist, or a psycho. This is our coping mechanism.

Society makes us feel ashamed of what we do. This is irrational. The public accepts alcoholism and drug addiction as coping mechanisms. They overlook people who destroy inanimate objects in fits of rage or depression. Yet what we do is no worse than these. Drug addiction slowly kills the body, ravaging you from the inside out. Self-injury only starts on the outside and works its way in. Destroying inanimate objects is barely different from destroying your body—you are not harming others or their property, you are simply getting around the anger or sadness.

Specifically, my story: when I was ten, I became depressed. I would sit in my bed at night and cut little slits in my wrist with scissors. In middle school, I would sit on my bed and use a straight pin to pick away the skin on the back of my hand. I have also punched brick walls and carved into my legs. I have always felt isolated and odd. Even surrounded by people (in fact, more so then than when I am alone), I feel like I am the only one who knows what I am going through. My mind makes me hate myself

The blood dripping out brings with it all of my hatred, insecurity, and stress. The bad feelings well up inside me, building for days at times, and I have to let them out. I don’t feel like I can talk to anyone, because these feelings have no tangible root—I don’t know why I need to do this. The pain is a sense of release; the emotional strain is converted into physical pain which is much easier to deal with. As I hurt myself, I usually cry, from the pain and the shame.

There is a relief that comes from this behavior. I feel like I can function again, like I am a real person. "You bleed just to know you’re alive," that sort of thing. This relief is almost indescribable. Either you know what I am talking about, or you don’t. I have tried other methods of dealing with stuff, like writing; I have pages of poetry but I still need to hurt myself. It’s a form of punishment almost, bigger than just the pain it hides. I hate myself and therefore deserve to be hurt, so I cut and feel better.

In writing this, I am not looking for sympathy. I am proving to myself that I am strong enough to tell people what I do, and I am proving to you that I trust you with my deepest secret. The only other ulterior motive I have is that I am sick of being alone. I hope that someone else will read this and identify with me. Hopefully, I can help someone else by going public with this (or find someone who can help me). I do not want people to be scared or to feel they must alert anyone (admin or res life). I just want a kindred soul to talk to. If you self-injure and are willing to let someone know, please let they guys that run this thing tell me.