My name is Rosalyn, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with self injury. I remember being about 4 or 5 and picking at my scalp for hours until my fingers were sticky with blood. I would also scrape myself with sticks, gnaw on my fingers, rip skin off of my lips, and fall down in an attempt to form a new scab to pick at. I had a minor problem with trichotillomania as well. My parents never noticed, though, and I seemed to just grow out of it all. For almost seven years, I was a normal, well-adjusted little girl.

It wasn’t until I was 12 that I picked up all of my old habits, and a few new ones. As things in my home started to change, so did I. My parents started fighting every night, becoming verbally, emotionally, and often physically abusive towards me and my brother. My father would get drunk every night and yell at my mom, threatening to kill her, then he would take all of his anger out on us. My mother resented us as well, since she felt that we had somehow chained her into this relationship when we were born. As a result, I became more secretive and more of a loner at school. I developed anorexia and dropped to around 95 pounds. I started scratching at my arms with my nails until they were raw and banging my head against walls when no one was around. I would also dip my hand into melted wax and stick my fingers in candle flames. I don’t know what made me do it, or where I got the idea. It just seemed right. It was so calming, even entertaining at times.

I didn’t make my first cut until I was 13. I was in 8th grade and had an argument with my only friend. I was so furious when I got home that day. I went to my room, sat down in the dark, and began tearing at my arms with my nails. It wasn’t working well because my nails were so short, so I grabbed a safety pin that was nearby and began to scratch at my legs. Soon I had calmed down, but I was still cutting. Now I realize I had dissociated, but at the time I was just in a trance, watching the blood drip down, but not feeling anything. It was amazing to me, that I had the power to do this to myself. I had found a way to finally release all of the anger and resentment I had towards my family and everyone around me. The next day at school, my friend came up to me, acting like nothing had happened. I told her to just leave me alone because I was done with all of her self-centered crap, then I just walked away. I haven’t really spoken to her since then.

For the next two and a half years I was a complete loner. I would hardly speak a word all day, and basically locked myself up in my mind. My cutting got worse and worse, moving from my calf to my thigh to my forearm to my shoulders. I was covered in sores and scratches on a daily basis, and I was running out of skin to cut. Everyone thought I was just going through a phase, because I started to dress in dark clothes and makeup and I never talked to anyone. I was just trying to cover up the sores and hide how skinny I’d gotten. Once again, no one noticed anything was wrong with me.

My lowest point was a few months before I turned 16. My parents fighting had reached an all time high. They would scream and fight hours into the night, throwing things and coming back to our bedrooms to yell at us when they were done. I’d started to get back to a healthy weight and I had a couple of friends and I’d quit cutting for about 6 months, but I had also become a target for bullies at school and was still being abused at home, so I really had no safe place to go. I slipped into the kitchen one afternoon and took a knife out of the drawer, taking it with me into the bathroom. I curled up in the corner and cried for hours, even writing out my suicide note. Then I took the knife and slashed at my legs, my arms, my thighs, until I was sitting in a pool of my blood. I don’t know if I was tired from the crying or had lost too much blood, but I soon passed out for what must have been hours. It was dark when I woke up again. I remember asking God why he couldn’t just
take me home already, before getting up on shaky legs and cleaning up the mess I’d made. No one noticed that I didn’t come out to eat, or wondered where I’d been all night.

About two weeks before my 16th birthday, my mom finally walked out on us. I woke up one Saturday afternoon to her shouting at my dad in the kitchen, saying she was telling the kids and then she’d be gone. I ignored most of it, and attempted to get my breakfast without being noticed. No such luck, though. My mom called me over and said she was getting a divorce. I said, "Whatever, it’s not like we haven’t all seen this coming anyways." and took my food back to my room. I had expected it to come someday, but I never thought about how it would affect me. I started crying, hitting myself, and throwing around anything that wouldn’t make noise. She was abandoning us with him. After all she’d seen him do to us, she was just going to walk out, like it’s not her responsibility anymore. A week later, she’d packed her things and was gone. My dad was so angry about it, he yelled at me for and hour and a half about cake on my birthday. Something about me being a greedy pig for taking the first piece, and that I didn’t need to be shoving anymore food down my throat. I just went to my room and sat in the dark staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t even really cry anymore. I simply stared at the blank white paint and thought about taking one of my dad’s guns and shooting my brains out all over his face.

When I went back to school a month later, I thought I was getting better. I had two great friends, my parents had stopped speaking completely, no one teased me anymore. Then, I met this guy. It sound so juvenile, I know, but he really broke me. I had never been noticed by any guys before, so I fell for all of his lies right away. He told me he liked me, he held my hand, told me how pretty I was, but above all he acknowledged me. No one had ever done that before. I found out soon enough that he was only using me as an excuse to be around my best friend. He had never liked me at all. He absolutely hated me, in fact. He told me all of this when I finally worked up the courage to ask him out. I spilled my guts and he spit in my face. I had never felt so worthless in all my life. I swore I’d never trust a man again, if this is what it’s like. I kept it from my friend though, and they ended up in short relationship. It made me sick to watch it. She found out what he was like on
her own, and neither of us speak to him anymore. I’ve learned my lesson, though.

I’m now 17 and in my senior year of high school. My trichotillomania has come back worse than ever, leaving bald patches. I still cut and bruise and head bang, and just about everyday I contemplate putting a gun to my head. But, I’m at least trying to deal with it all and I will hopefully be going to therapy once I graduate. I think it is possible to quit if you want it bad enough. I still have hope that someday, with the right treatment, I can beat this and be a normal, happy girl. It’s the only thing I’m living for.