Do you ever spot other self-injurers? Do you ever just know? Or does it take a quick downwards glance to the arms and then a look into the eyes? Either way, you have encountered another who shares your pain and knows how it is to hurt himself/herself.

Knowing one is not alone is often hard to believe, contrary to the vast amounts of evidence you have to tell you otherwise. Self-injury is such a lonely actitivy. Not something one usually shares with another. Perhaps that is why so many of us are constantly on the search for others like us.

When one does spot another self-injurer, what is there to do? Go up to them, give a cheery smile and say, "Hi. You cut your arms up, right?" Of course not. Unless they have spotted you too the thing to do is stay quiet. Unless you are an especially brave soul.

These times of recognition occur way more frequently in psychiatric hospitals and other similar places. There you can talk with others like yourself face to face but what of those fleeting sightings? The ones that take place at school or on the street or at the beach. Perhaps the girl wearing a sweater in 96 degree weather? Do you want to tell her that she isn't alone and that it is ok? I do.

If you have had an experience in recognizing other self-injurers and want to share it please e-mail me.

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One of my first real lovers, who I still look back on with a sort of longing, was a self-injurer. I was new in college at the time, and very nervous about my scars, having had a high school friend who had been hospitalized against her will for 'attempted suicide.'

And seeing her later I realized that her 'suicide attempt' was much less than the cuts I had been doing for years. I never realized anyone else cut themselves, I thought it was something wrong with me. But seeing the trouble it caused for her, I was convinced that it was something that had to be hidden at all costs.

In college I wore a lot of long sleeved shirts and was very careful. At a party, though, I saw her, and it wasn't even that she was dressed in long sleeves inappropriately, nothing as simple as that. I saw her pull her sleeve down with her hand before she reached out to pick up a drink, and recognized the movement, she was pushing her sleeve down to hide a scar on her forearm.

And after that I had to talk to her. I got a friend to introduce us, and waited until she made the same covering move again, made sure she saw that I saw it, and then quickly rolled up my sleeve and showed my little farm of scars. And she looked at me. She was afraid, and then understood. She understood, she saw my scars and there was relief and understanding in her eyes, and I can't describe how that made me feel.

One has to understand that at the time, I was convinced that what I was doing was something no one did, and that if I told anyone they would consider it tantamount to suicide. Just the fact that there was someone in the world who would understand this was horribly significant.

I'm still friends with her, though we've drifted apart. For a while we were passionate lovers. I could let her hands drift over the ridges of scar tissue on my arms and shoulders and not be afraid, and we understood each other. She had the same pain I did, even if I had a fresh scar, I could go to her, and we'd take solace in each other. We still are very close.

But yes, I recognized how she pushed at her sleeve, probably because I had done something similar. Just a little gesture, but so familiar.

Well, anyway, a story of startling insignificance, but it does answer your question, and your website is so good, that I feel compelled to contribute even my half-arsed incoherent wanderings in lieu of positive feedback.

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First, I just want to say that your site is amazing. That said, I wanted to respond to your ? about checking out everyone elses arms, looking for someone like you. A former best friend of mine was a "cutter," I hate to say I was drawn to her the day she showed up in class. She walked like she hated
herself, just like me. But I soon realized she cared more about knowing everyone liked her then she ever did about me. She stepped on me all the time, so I stopped speaking to her. Again recently I was at work and noticed a girl that worked with me had horrible scars that put mine to shame(a little of that healthy competition :) ). I was really nice to her and we became inseparable...until she began taking all her shit out on me. As if it made it easier for her to tell ME I looked like shit that day. Or I was so stupid, such an idiot, so pathetic. Then she would cry and say I was abandoning her when I would finally go home cause I couldn't take her anymore. I began to wonder if I hated myself or her more. I would be so nice to someone I knew was as unsure of herself as I am. But I always get stepped on. I guess I will always look for sad eyes and scarred arms. Stupid me...

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I've been cutting/burning myself on and off for quite a few years now. I try not to, but sometimes the release is just too tempting. I'm starting to feel silly, as I think I'm getting to old for this, but then I'll have a really bad day and...

Anyway, I work in a bar and every once in a while a girl (always seems to be girls) will pay for a drink and her sleeve will come up a few inches and you see the scars. I've given up trying to hide mine (I live in Arizona, like I'm going to wear long sleeves at work!). It always seems that we manage to pass a glance that just says "I know and I understand". Sometimes it's a relief to have someone notice and not ask questions.

I hope I'll outgrow this phase soon.

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Well, as for "Recognition", Yep yep yep. See 'em all the time. When I was at Western Kentucky University (half hour from TN, in Bowling Green, KY), I saw many cases of self-injury and self-medicating, in the form of cutting, burning, eating disorders, drug use/severe abuse, promiscuous sex, abusing others through violence, and lots and lots of binge drinking. My friends would practically crawl into their first morning class, and most ended up dropping-out or failing, because they were not prepared to deal w/ life away from home, and all the pressures and demands that college puts on ya. My very best friend and practice partner for Ballet & Yoga was bulimic. She had been since she was 14, and was put on Prozac by a school counselor at WKU. She swore that it helped, and that she had gone from purging 3 times a day, to only once a day. But, she still continued to drag into class, or maniacally bound into class, and you could tell she had purged from her swollen parotid glands (puffy cheeks), and broken blood vessels (dots under er eyes). So, those who self-injure are very devious and secretive, and feel compelled to lie, though they want so badly to let everyone know, and they want nothing more than for the whole world to understand and help them...

Here, Bloomington, IN, home of Indiana University (& icky ex-coach Bob Knight-abusive man), I've seen so many girls who are walking skeletons. I've seen so many boys, especially "goths" or ravers that look as if they are about to die. But, the only true self-injury I've seen (other than the possibles with their long-sleeves year round and bulky clothing) was a very sweet Af.-Amer. girl. We became friends through another friend (who has OCD, and I swear is anorexic- she doesn't eat and is like a size negative-4). When we started hanging out, it was in the summer. She would take no less than 2 hours to "do her hair" before coming over. I know that Af.-Amer. women's hair entails a LOT of preparation, but she always wears hers pulled back in a tiny pony tail, that looks as if was done in 5 seconds. So, that was the first weird thing. Now, she doesn't smoke, or do drugs, mind you. Well, she wore long sleeves and long pants all summer. I saw her in a skirt, but she wore it with opaque black tights, which you couldn't see through.

The point of the story, sorry to ramble, is that she made the mistake of pulling up her sleeves when she was distracted, playing with the cats... Her arms were covered in little round burn scars, some old, some fresh... and this was just what I saw up to the elbow. I know it's not a skin condition- she exposes her chest, neck, face, and ankles... But it was gut-wrenching, even though I had burned myself not that long before (landing me in the hospital for a week).

Surprisingly enough, I DID feel a sense of jealousy, at how much she had "accomplished". So much more than me. And, when you surf around the net for self-injury sites, there ARE a lot of triggers, just because the stories, self-accounts, fiction/fact stuff, celebrity accounts, and pictures of scars and wounds, are so massive. They all make you want to do more than them. They scare you, and they disgust you, but being the perfectionist you are, all you want to do is be their equal, or better.

When you see a picture of someone's arm that's covered in old scars and bloody from new scars, all you feel is envy. I don't even experience a sense of understanding from them... it's just like a strange competition. Not much different from that of Anorexics in an eating disorders ward... they all have their tips, and their secrets. And, they all compete to be the thinnest, and to be the most obnoxious toward the staff.

You see, I am a psych. major, and I plan to get a certificate in Eating Disorders Counseling, so I've really been doing lots of research!

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i came across this site from a link on someone's journal. reading recognition it asked to email if you have had an experience recognizing other self injurers....

because our parents were close friends, we've known each other since we were born. Wavering from best friends, to friends who haven't seen each other in forever but meet up occasionally, to close friends we kept in contact. Finally allie and i were going to be attending the same school, this hasn't happened since kindergarten, most likely the main cause of the wavering in our friendship. Walking towards the door of our summer school class allie told me about her acquaintance tj, and how he told her about the blades beauty and the shiny-ness of it and that he cuts himself. At that point we hadn't realize both of us were cutters also and looked at each other with a mix of sympathy and confusion. The secret feelings inside us were so alike but had yet to surface. Talking on AIM the subject of a secret, or a flaw, or something that frustrates us, or a problem, or something like that, i cant recall came up. the conversation went something like this---

me - "maybe we do the same thing."

allie - "no, not you."

me - "does it remind you of tj."

allie-"uh, yeah."

me - "does it start with a c."

....you get the idea, by the end of the night we had realized we both cut. She was the first real person i ever told. (the first person i told being on the computer) the next day at summer school, the exact place we had walked before, we ran into each other's arms... she gives the best hugs. during class she gives me a massive note, about four pages, about all of these family problems and i had to go outside and talk to her because i was started to cry.

after all of this i remembered when she and i went to the del mar fair and she kept her sweatshirt on the entire time as the sun beat down. the thought she was hiding something never crossed my mind.

we have both gotten a lot better with cutting, i haven't cut in about 2 and 1/2 weeks, and allie i don't think shes cut in at least a month but ill have to ask her. i'm pretty sure she's stopped, but stopping usually allows an occasional cut? i know she wears whatever she wants without trying to cover things up so that's good.

also, someone i went to middle school with for a while is a cutter. (i've seen her arms and i know she is) i'm sure she doesn't know about me. i really wanna talk to her, but i just can't seem to.(we go to the same high school now) i got her name wrong when we were walking to the pep rally and she remembered mine. i used to say hi to her in the halls but, now i think she doesn't really like me much. maybe the next time i see her i'll talk to her, yes i will, but not about si, but i'll try to make it so she can see my scars. i don't know how that's gonna work... i just really want her to know that i share that kinda pain. she may assume things and think i'm stupid but oh well. i don't know. got any suggestions?

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I thought I would tell you about one of my friends, I meet her will at a holiday camp and first noticed the white scars on her arm, I them immediately knew she was a cutter, she was not ashamed of her cut and never tried to cover them up, I was completely the opposite, I covered my cuts up. I was actually jealous of her at first, because her scars were much deeper than mine and she had loads. We never got off to a really good start then one day she asked me why I kept my arms covered up and that was what she used to be like, but she wanted to have her scars noticed and for people to comment so she could tell them her story. For me though it was my secret way of coping and I never wanted anybody to find out. After the holiday club finished we kept in touch and have become really good friends, when we feel like cutting I can phone her up and she has a pretty good idea of what I am feeling. We started going to this group together and it amazed me how many people were there, from every background. It just goes to show you can never judge a book by it's front cover.

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In my circle of friends there are six people that cut themselves. There is Becka who once at a very trying time in her life cut three or four small lines into her arm, she has secretly done more I'm sure.

There is Jay who once cut himself very badly and was put in a mental hospital for a short time. Jay is different though because he was crying for help, his father's extreme pride and my-son-is-perfect attitude kept Jay from coming out as gay.

Munky (nickname) is new and rather strange but he is for sure tormented, he has been better though since he and Becka started dating.

Alyssa is the worst of all of us and has been
cutting for the longest, she is also new. And there is Holly, she does it for the attention. I know that is an awful thing to say but it is true. She is very fake, and many of her wounds don't even bleed. She just makes them look bad.

Then there is me, I don't know about me I am just glad I found others to relate to. The last time I cut myself was about two months ago, but they were the worst yet. They will leave a very nasty mark. All of the people I have mentioned go to my high school.

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in high school, one of my good friends pulled me aside one day and simply said "i know how it is." that was it, we didn't mention it for about a week, when finally we were the only ones siting at a table in study hall, and i asked him what he meant. that's when he pulled up his sleeve, and there was a small row of 1 inch scars. i remember that i felt so jealous that he had those lovely scars; no matter what i do i don't really scar. i just glanced at them then said "oh" we didn't talk the rest of the period; but he would always just give me a big hug if i kept my arms covered. as high school went on we kind of sent our separate ways, but my best friend and his best friend started dating so we started seeing each other more often. his friends would always ask him, why he was friends with me, when i first heard them ask him, i worried he'd say something; but he just said that i was nicer then everyone else knew. it was nice to know that there was someone else like me.

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I am fifteen, and although I started cutting very recently I have been a self injurer for years. I have been hurting myself since I was 5, mostly running into things, punching myself, and starting fights with loose cannons in order to get beat up. I love the hollow feeling that you get while being punched, followed by the war pain that fills your rib cage. I had never once had someone say anteing about it, and I only realized a year ago that I was hooked on pain. Last month, however, I began to cut. I usually am very careful with hiding my cuts (cuts are harder to come by accidentally than my customary bruises, and therefore harder to explain) but I was hurting in school, and so had attacked my knee with an x-acto knife under the desk, through the hole in my jeans. It did not bleed profusely, but it was enough. Later that day, a woman who I love and respect, who taught me to deal with my sexuality. I am a lesbian, and comfortable with it (that is not the reason I cut). She has been my mentor and friend for many years, and she spotted my cuts. They do not appear self inflicted to anyone else, but as soon as she saw them, her eyes snapped to mine. She knew. We were with my father, and I was afraid she was going to tell him, but she simply walked up to me as we are leaving, and pulled up her sleeve. There are a number of very impressive scars all up her arm. She said simply "Please don't," hugged me, and walked away

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I like most people on this site SI. My thing is branding. And especially my upper and lower arms and my chest. For some reason I always brand in the same pattern a kind of hourglass shape. Especially on my upper arms I have two big ones on each arm and on my lower arms the same. I used to wear long sleeved shirts and long sleeved sweaters. But ever since a couple of months ago I have stopped doing that. When I go to a party or when I go out I wear short sleeved shirts or sometimes sleeveless shirts. And I have found this to do two things. First of all if people see it they will either think I am crazy and walk away, which is fine with me because if the interest is purely physical then I am not interested in becoming friends with this person either, or they come over and ask me about it and really talk to me about it. Now do not get me wrong this is not a form off asking for contact or screaming for attention. Because it is not like I walk around showing off my scars. Not at all even. I have just made the decision not to hide my scars anymore. Because I am sick of not being able to play football or to mess around with my friends just because my shirt sleeve might go up and they might see it. By not hiding my scars I have lost a few friends who thought me just crazy but I have also gained some friends who knew what it was and who did it themselves.

What I am trying to say with his story is just that there is so much misunderstanding about self injury and sometimes being open about it enables people to see through the "weirdness mist" that hangs around it and really gives them the opportunity to understand and then decide whether they accept it or still think I am weird and a freak.

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Its funny because you can realize you are sitting next to a self injurer. Since i a cutter i find i most often notice cutters. I think its because i am so scared to be open about what i do i am very paranoid about it. And being paranoid i look for the same flaws in others as i have in myself.

There was this one time i was sitting in a room waitng for an interveiw for a academic award i was in the running for to receive. i had a bad night the night before and had cuts on my arm. i was sitting next to my biggest competition he was a really really good looking guy and i was secretly drooling, anyway. we started talking and i noticed the way he was holding his wrist. it was the same way i hold mine when i have fresh cuts that still sting. I was amazed this person looked as though they never had a bad day in their life, he looked like if he asked anygirl would be at his side, and yet he was into cutting. I then looked back at myself and although i am not a pretty girl i dont look like the sterotypical goth cutters.

After the interveiws finished i caught up once again with the boy i was sitting next to. i asked him about his wrist and why he was holding it that way. as soon as he hesitated i pulled up my jacket and said "i know you, I feel your pain, you arent alone". We had special bond at that moment we exchanged AIM names and went home.

We still talk on the internet and we are good friends. our lives are very different but our pains and our triggers are the same. Stress, the frustration of not only dissapointing yourself but your team and family as well.

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I know 3 other people in my school who currently cut, and 1 who used to. The one who used to is a boy, the ones who still do our girls.

I can always tell when one of my friends has cut. She's very open about it, but besides that I can usually tell when she's depressed. She has this...look in her eyes that at times breaks my heart, and the cuts are easy to tell because she either tells me or I can see all the scars on her arms.

The other 2 girls I had no idea they cut. One unexpectedly told me while talking to my friend (not the one who cuts) and I've seen her arms, they look like mine used to. The other, I first heard cut while talking to those two friends above, but the girl I'm talking about it very casual about it. I was at her house a couple nights ago with another cutter and she showed the other girl her arm and said " My wounds still haven't healed on my arm" or something like that. She was also talking about how dull her knife was.

Now, when I cut I didn't want anyone to know. I told two of my best friends (one of whom is the first girl I mentioned who cuts), and also the before mentioned boy knew, although I never told him. That's what made me stop cutting...there was a part of me that wanted to tell someone, get help, but a bigger part that didn't want anyone to know and was tired of making excuses. It's not that I still don't want to cut, but...I don't know if it's worth doing, because then I might have to lie even more and my sister would start watching me all worriedly again.

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You can just look into their eyes, and tell they're wishing for something more, that their body is there, but their spirit of somewhere else, somewhere that can't be followed.

I can still remember. In the lunchroom, 8th grade, I was the new girl. . .again. I sat in the corner, the seat where I sat every day at my old school. A fragile looking girl too the chair across from me. She wore a gray sweat-shirt, even though it was spring. We were the only ones in the lunchroom with long sleeves, and when she reached for her soda, her sleeve pulled up a bit. Grabbing the can, she quickly shoved it back down to her hand, and nervously glanced up at me, to see if I noticed. I saw the tip of a scar on the back of her hand, and something clicked in my head.

'I wasn't the only one! There's someone else like me, someone else that can understand me! I have to talk to her somehow, I have to show her I do it too.'
Casually reaching for my French-fries, my sleeve pulled up several inches. I watched her eyes widen a millimeter as she studied the grotesque scars that circled my wrist, wrapping all the way up my arm. Her eyes met mine, and I could see all those years of pain just melt away for an instant, and I knew she could see it in mine. We were outcasts, with no one, and nothing to turn to except the razor, safety pin, tack, etc. 'Till now we had both thought we were the only ones on the Earth that did this to ourselves, but we were wrong.

One of us said something first, I can't remember what. Pretty soon we ditched lunch, and headed off to the girl's bathroom at the other end of school, the one no one ever uses anymore. For the rest on lunch we talked about everything that had to do with cutting, our first time, what made us do it, and if we ever planned to stop.

She was my only friend at the school, and she was the best friend I've ever had. Then it happened. My mum told me we were moving again (This happened once ever 3 years, so I wasn't too surprised.) I couldn't take it. I didn't want to leave her, so we had an idea.

They day I was supposed to move, I'd go over to her house to say 'goodbye.' We'd lock ourselves in the bathroom, and cut our wrists a little too deep. Everything bad would be over. All the names all the pain, all the horror of having to live.

On the day we were going to move I slipped my favorite razor in my jeans pocket, and headed over to her house. She greeted me at the door, and brought me to the bathroom. Locking it behind herself she pulled her razor from a cabinet, and rolled up her sleeve-I rolled up mine. Exchanging one last hug and kiss we pushed the razors into our wrists, I made I cross, she made a miss shapen heart. Sobbing I looked at her and watched the blood flow from bother our wrists. I just felt heavy, and I knew this was going to be the end. My vision blurred as I laid my head down on the rug.

Suddenly someone was talking, voices were muffled. I opened my eyes and realized I was in the hospital. It turns out her mother had heard crying coming from the bathroom, tried to open the door- couldn't, so she called 911. She had knows about her daughter cutting, and was frantic. I had just missed my vein somehow. and I was okay, but the girl that I grown to love had died that day on the bathroom floor, laying next to me.

It's been 2 years since that, I've been to hundreds of new schools (and therapists) and have yet to find another like her. Even though two years have past, it doesn't hurt any less.

Callie
scaridoll@aol.com

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Hello -
My name is Sarah. I have been a self-injurer for four years now, almost five, and I think I have a real knack for spotting other people that hurt themselves, or intend to. I don't try to. I don't go looking for them, but if I meet someone, sometimes I just have a feeling that they are self-mutilating. When I was 10 years old, my cousin babysat me and my sister since my mom had passed away. Her friend would always come over, and something just told me that this girl was a cutter. Turns out, she was. She showed me her arm one time, and then she asked me if I would ever do that. I told her no, but ended up starting shortly after. When I was hospitalized for self-mutilation and attempted suicide, I just KNEW this one girl has to be a cutter. Before I even knew her problems and was in a group with her, I just KNEW. Turns out we were in there for the same reason! A couple summers ago, a man moved in the house two doors down from our's. He was just divorced, and had a four year old daughter. Well, he didn't live there long because he committed suicide. The first time I met him, just the look in his eyes, the way he talked, the way he gave such vague answers - I knew he wanted to die. A couple weeks later he was found dead. When I started my first year in high school, I met a group of people that I thought were very nice, but then it turns out almost all of them are self-injurers. Without even knowing them at all, I started to become friends with them and then found outabout this. I thought it was kind of odd how we just seemed to find each other. I don't know what it is. I don't know how I know. I just get this feeling... andusually this feeling is right. I wish my feelings were wrong though. And I wish someone took them more seriously.

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I think that I knew that this certain boy hurt himself as soon as I met him. I could just tell. And for a year or so, all I wanted to do was tell him. I don't know whether I thought it would help him or me. But I knew he did it before I actually saw him doing it (a mental picture that left me with an odd mix of aversion and fascination every time it replayed in my head). One night after a practice or something, we were waiting for ride, and I think he just kind of showed me a delightful little cross-hatching he had done over his wrist, and I was (paradoxically) completely repulsed and sort of "freaked out" on him. I then apologized and told him that I "used to do that" and that seeing it brought back a lot of memories. And we never really spoke about it again. We didn't become that close, and neither of us stopped, but I get some comfort out of the fact that he knows me, and I know him. He's one of those who does it in semi-public, though, and every body knows. But still, I feel better than I knew by the way he cups his wrist when he doesn't have his sweatshirt and by the way he pulls his sleeves down, and I didn't have to see them to know.

These days I don't see him much anymore, and I have this incredible urge to show him my new scars. Or make them visible to him. At the time of our conversation on the subject, I thought I was "recovered," so it was like I was bonding my past with his present, not at pleasing as bonding present with present. So now he's just one of those people I push my sleeves up for or scoot my bracelets up my arm for. I don't think they ever notice, but it's just one of those things. It's not a cry for attention or a "silent scream" for help. It's more of a secret password. You see my scars, I see your scars, and we're part of that underground club that most people don't know about. I don't want to be told that it'll be okay, or that things will get better. All I want to here is, "I understand. I know where you're coming from."

Keri
BereftOfLife@aol.com

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I too have a story.

Although I am only 15 years old, I have been spending the last dozen almost continuously cutting myself on the forearms, chest and thighs. I have my reasons.
On the first day back at school there was a new girl in my form. I knew three things as soon as saw her. She was desirable, she was out of my league, and she abused herself. she had bags under her eyes, and a sad look on her face. despite the boiling weather, she was he only one wearing a blazer, and she had her arms crossed so that the ends of the sleeves were concealed. There were plenty of seats in the room, but she chose to sit next to me. we didn't talk during registration, except a rather tentative "hi". on the way down to the Cathedral (I go to a cathedral school and we were having a start of term service), we got talking. I asked her why she sat next to me, and she relied "I think we both know" and touched my arm. I'm not sure how she knew I was a self abuser, but I'm guessing she saw the same things in me that I saw in her. when the day had ended, she asked me if I wanted to stop. I said yes (this is true). she then kissed me and told me that she really liked me, but that she wanted to get to know me a bit better first.

Later that night, I was about to cut myself, and all I could think of was cutting (the girl).I put the knife away, and had the first good nights sleep I've had in a very long time. I've been cut clean for the longest period in the last year. I owe it all to recognising another abuser.

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I'm sixteen years old, and I've been cutting for five of those years - five
of the longest years of my life. I started cutting when I was just eleven. I
had read stories about people cutting, but never really thought of it as
real - though the huge reference is always a razor. So when I started, I
used a razorblade. I thought it was kind of morbidly poetic. It got worse
when I figured out I was bi - I thought I was some freak. I knew about
lesbians, of course, but not bisexuals. So each time I drew more blood than
I had before, and sunk deeper into my dark little hole.

I saw her for the first time in Art Class, just last year. Right away, I knew there was something different about her. She was gorgeous, long curly black hair, soft, pale skin - very gothic. She was also incredibly gifted, her paintings were some of the best. She was two years older than I, and way out of my league. I wanted her - wanted her with a strange kind of dark passion. I think I sensed something in her that I recognized in myself. The quick movements to cover wrist, shoulder, leg. I think she liked that thrill of almost being caught, for she often wore short-sleeved shirts and shorts or miniskirts.

I had suspected before, but I really knew one day in winter. It was oddly warm, the furnace was broken and way up hot. Everyone was down to the bare minimum, and a few of the girls were contemplating going around in bras. Personally I wouldn't have objected, but I don't decide the dress code. It was boiling hot inside, freezing cold outside, so no one knew where to go. I was sitting in art class, staring at a staple sticking out of the table, contemplating standing up and jamming my leg into it.

I saw her sitting on the table next to me when I turned my gaze from the staple - I had started to do that. My eyes would seek her out when they weren't otherwise occupied. She was shivering, wearing a tiny spaghetti-strapped dress. Her hands were rubbing her arms - or one was. Her left hand was rubbing her right arm raw, but her right hand was staying still, exactly centered between her left shoulder and elbow. She asked someone for a sweatshirt, because she was just so cold - and I knew.

She still doesn't know about me, I've gotten good at hiding it over five years... though I hate having to hide it. But it felt good, in a perverse kind of way, just to know that someone else is in as much pain as I - Misery loves company.

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Last summer I attended a music camp at a nearby college. While there I was having a conversation with a few people, one of whom was a very outspoken boy. For some reason the topic of stupid things came up, and he mentioned self mutilation. "I just don't get it. Why on earth would anyone ever want to do that? I try constantly to avoid pain." Another boy spoke up and mentioned that a few years ago he had been a cutter, which effectively ended the conversation, to my relief. A day or two later, I was sitting outside, and I was talking to the guy who had admitted to cutting. It was a hot summer so I was wearing a tank top, and I saw him looking up and down my left arm. "What?" I asked vaguely. And he just started touching each of my scars, saying "I was just noticing this, and this, and this, and this..." I confessed and we talked about it for a few minutes. We still keep in touch.

---

I knew a lot of SI-ers. A lot of desperate people with emotions they didn't know how to handle. Some were open about it, some didn't talk about it much at all. One day, in my German class, I noticed the scars of the girl sitting next to me. I knew her well enough to call her a friend, but we'd not had a conversation that was deep or meaningful before, or even a full conversation. I slipped her a note saying her scars were very visible despite her attempts to hide them with her sleeves. She put on her jacket and said simply 'thanks' and looked me in the eyes. At lunch I pulled her aside and asked her about it. About everything. I told her my story, she told me hers, and I gave her the link to this site. I don't know what happened after that.

Yes, I do actually. But not in regards to her. In that same seat, in that same classroom, I saw scars once more. This time, though, the scars were on my 24 year old German teacher. He regularly wore long sleeved dress shirts except on Fridays. This particular Friday his sleeves were short and these scars were visible. Not new, not red, not gigantic, but there were a lot of them. There were at least 20 on each arm, old scars. They made me wonder- what had changed in his life to make everything okay, or at least good enough to stop. What had made things in his life so bad as to begin? This man was always happy, perky, good natured, joking. Honestly you could think of the happiest person on Earth and this teacher would beat him by a mile. His childhood seemed okay, he had grown up in a nice house with both his parents and his sister. He had had friends throughout school. He'd had good prospects for the future. Just goes to show...

---

one day on the way back from the river i saw i scar on my friends arm.I just
knew, but I asked her how she got it she looked really scared and said, "my
cat scratched me." I knew it was a lie - i used that one before - i picked up my
shirt and showed her a long fresh cut and said, "my cat did this too." she
just looked at me and in her eyes i could tell she was shocked, scared, and
relieved all at once... then she said , "do you have a cat? Because I don't."

---

I have just completed school and have a great friend who has been to school with me since our fourth year in primary school. Let me call her Kelly (not her real name).

I am a self-injurer. I have been for about three years. I have a really fucked up family and the only comfort i could find was a knife/razorblade/glass... I knew of two other girls who used to cut themselves, but didn't know that this one friend of mine would even think about doing something like this to herself. But none of us really think, do we? Well, here's the story of how i found out:

At one stage of my life i was deeply depressed. i hated myself so much that it was horrible to be around me. the group of friends that Kelly and i hung out with apparently started to feel this awful vibe from me. they used Kelly to break the news to me as she'd been a friend of mine for ages. when she told me, i wanted to curl up and die. she told me not to take it too badly and not to think of ways to kill myself (they were going through my mind then) as i had attempted suicide by accident before (don't ask!!!). she told me that she was there for me and that we'd be friends for a long time to come. i believed her.

A few months later she wrote me a letter telling me that she didn't want to be friends with me, that i was a bitch and should should think about the things i've done in the past. i still don't know what she was talking about. this brought on a major attack of cutting. it was then, when my family was destroyed and my friends didn't want anything to do with me, that i used to cut myself every day, anytime i could. i felt the most isolated i have ever felt in my life.

This carried on for weeks. it got to the stage where i didn't give a shit about who knew and walked around with my sleeves pulled up at school, but only during lessons when i thought no one was taking any note of me. then one day during class Kelly saw them. She asked me "what's on your arm?"

I replied "nothing" as our friendship was still at the beginning of being rebuilt. i didn't trust her.

She ignored my answer and asked me "why on your arms?"

I challenged her with "why not?"

She didn't answer, but said "I cut on my thighs. sometimes i scratch my knuckles."

She had opened up to me in a way that i never thought was possible. we got talking that day all about cutting ourselves and how it felt much better when we did it. i had someone to get me through my toughest days, and she had someone to get her through her toughest days. i thank her for that and really treasure the new friendship we now have.

Since then i now know 7 people who are self injurers. I am not alone. Neither are all of you out there! Keep strong and one day you'll be able to stop. Like me. Unfortunately it's an addiction, and like any other addiction, once an addict to the blade, always an addict.

---

Noticing me:

I had friends who cut before I ever thought I could do it. The first time, I scratched myself - I thought they would recognize it right away. I spent hours crafting the perfectly believable tale. They never noticed. I stepped it up after that.

I played rugby in college. The uniform was ideal - a long sleeved jersey with cuffs that couldn't be pushed up, spandex shorts under canvas shorts, knee high socks and ankle high boots - but hot. We practiced in shorts and tee shirts. Some weeks, that wasn't a problem. I didn't really have any body issues then, so I was hanging out in my sports bra just like them. The next practice, I'd be in long sleeves and sweatpants. No one ever commented

I roomed with a rugby player my second year. There was a week when we didn't speak, even once. We weren't mad - I was asleep during the day and out when she was in the room...When I was awake, it was nearly dawn. There were pill bottles strewn across my dresser and thready scars along my arms. I never bothered to hide either. I overdosed and passed out on my friend's bed. When I woke up in the hospital, my hallmates came to visit with cartoons and video games. They never asked about it.

I lived alone my third year. I threw up in the hall bathrooms and wore bandages constantly. I had public safety drive me to the hospital and missed a hall outing. I came back with three inches of stitches. I disappeared after October break and didn't return for two weeks. When I cleaned out my fridge and left the alcohol on a neighbor's floor, they said thanks. I went into rehab the next week.

I got a job at the mall. It was warm, so I wore short sleeves. My manager told me about her rape, her cutting, her dropping out of school. During closing, the bandage fell off of my shoulder. Eight parallel burns marked my shoulder. She looked - I told her I got burned. "By what?!" A radiator. We finished closing.

I volunteer at a thrift store. I move boxes and fold clothing. It's summer, so I wear tank tops and shorts. I met my new co-worker yesterday. We talked about the Salvation Army - she never took her eyes off my shoulder.

Noticing them:

A girl on my hall in college always wore long sleeves. One day, she was walking past with a backpack on. She stopped in the lounge to take it off, and caught one of her sleeves in the strap. I saw her arm then met her eyes. There were other people around. She went to her room. I saw her twice more that October. Not after that, though.

I met a girl in the hospital. She was loud, wild, fierce. She held her body straight and spouted fantastic ideas. Her shoulder was a bright red contrast to her dark skin. We talked about road trips. I wrote her when she left before me. I called her when I got out. Her number was disconnected.

I knew a woman. We were inpatient together, and went to an outpatient program together. We used colored pens to draw designs around our scars, but we talked about clothes. I drew the same designs on her casket.

Don't not notice.

---

My name is Drystani.
Once in my last year of high school, I found out that this girl was a cutter. I remember it was a really hot day, and I was wearing long pants (I cut my legs mostly). This girl, however, was wearing a tank top and jeans. I looked at her arms, and saw so many scars. I really felt bad for her since she is a great person, and shouldn't have to deal with pain like I did-not that any of us deserve the pain anyway. She spotted me looking, and I met her eyes with a look of awe and knowing. In that moment, I longed to say something to her, but I couldn't think. Here she was, so unafraid of people's reactions, and there I was doing all I could to keep people from noticing.
I never did say anything to her since it was close to graduation, and I barely saw her after that. I wonder how she's doing...

---

There have been so many times where I have suspected someone is cutting themselves. I have a friend who I thought may be Bulimic. There are only two people who I am completely sure about. The first is this girl I know who is a year older than me. She went out with one of my really good guy friends for about two days before she dumped him. She came to school with this HUGE bandage on her arm claiming my friend had made her cut herself because she was so distraught. When she undid the bandages to let me see I felt a mixture of anger and pride. She had these two minuscule cuts to the side of a vein. I hated her then because I knew she was one of those people who cut for attention, I wanted to show her my arm with it's scars of varying size and say 'you want to see real cutting?' I didn't of course. I felt proud because I cut more than her.. that sounds kind of crazy.

The other girl is one of my really good friends. She came to school last year and is goth. I instantly liked her for her fashion sense and no bullshit attitude. I came to school one morning complaining that I'd had to take some panadol and I hate tablets. She just turned around and said 'Try taking 5 muthafuckin huge tablets every morning.' I asked her what she had to take and she listed a bunch of vitamins before getting to 'and my antidepressants.' It took me a while to absorb that information cause she always seemed so happy. Anyway I told her how I was positive I had undiagnosed depression and explained all my "symptoms" and she said I probably did. Then we started talking about cutting and we found out we both did it. It felt so wonderful to finally know someone who thinks like you. We became even closer after that and we're always talking about shit that happens and comforting each other. We had a conversation once about wanting to stop self injuring. I remember she said she felt so dizzy after cutting because she lost so much blood. I felt so envious that she cut deep enough to lose more than 10ml of blood like I usually had. I cut a lot deeper now, and I know that sounds crazy but there's a part of your mind that just says 'you have to cut deeper, there has to be alot of blood.' About a week ago I saw fresh cuts on her arm because she was wearing a fishnet arm sock which I could see through. Her cuts were the same as when I was only losing 10ml.. It made me feel good. 1. to know that I cut deeper than her and 2. that she didn't really cut that deep because she's my friend and as much as I like having someone to share this with I wish she didn't do it. No one wants their friends to be feeling the pain that you're feeling. Anyway those are the people I've recognised and how it's changed my behaviour in cutting..

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I have visited your site a couple of times before now, and I figure that this is finally the time to tell this story. I have a friend, who I happened to date for five months about a year ago, but she started out as a friend and we've ended up just friends again. The first time I became aware of her scars, I felt them instead of seeing them. Now she wears short sleeve shirts because she realizes that the shirts she wore before didn't hide them. That's because they are big, ropy keloids. I'll admit, I do envy her that. My skin refuses to keloid, no matter how deep I cut. Anyway, we were in her room with the lights out, I'm sure you can imagine what we were doing, and I ran my hands up her arms. But, when my fingers brushed her upper-arm/shoulder area, I knew immediately what they were. She pulled back, and I could tell she was really scared I wouldn't accept her anymore, so all I could think to do was to pull up my skirt (I cut my upper thighs, mostly) and show her the dark brown and purple scars there. She started crying and I hugged her, and we've been practically inseperable ever since. Hell, when we broke up, I was the one she came crying to for comfort. I think it just made us better friends. I know it sounds odd, but it's true.
-Dante