I think I was twelve the first time I self-harmed.
At this time, self-harm had been big news in my school, and people seemed to associate 'cutters' with the type of music I'd recently gotten into. I'd started listening to 'emo' bands like MCR and BVB, and my friends liked to make jokes about self-harm (don't judge them - we were twelve and stupid and have all changed massively since then).
I distinctly remember the first time I hurt myself happening after one of many brutal arguments with my mom, and running upstairs with the idea of getting back at her in my head. I was hurt and angry and completely ridiculous, so I took a pin from my draw and scratched at my wrist until it was red and sore and bleeding just a little. It took the edge off my anger, sure, but it didn't change the fact that I was crying and upset and still pissed as hell.
The next day, at school, my three friends saw the scabbed scratches on the side of my wrist ("you did it in the wrong place, Saffron" *laughter*) and I instantly made the excuse of scratching myself on the edge of a cupboard door - they believed me, of course, and we carried on like normal.
The next time I cut, I used a compass and made a long slit down the front of my forearm (that scar is still there to this day, albeit faint). The time after that, I used a knife - I only made a small mark, and it wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been.
I don't remember the first time I stole a clean razor blade from my step dad's cupboard and made a slit on my ribs under my bra strap so it would stay covered; I don't remember the first time I took apart that razor so I could deepen the cuts; I don't remember the first time I ran out of space under my bra strap and moved to my ankles, my calves, my thighs.
I do, however, remember the first time my mom saw my cuts.
She screamed and cried and went on and on about how selfish I was - and at the time, I thought she was being completely ridiculous, but she was 100% right. I was being stupid and selfish, and I deserved zero pity - I wasn't being hurt by someone else, I was doing this to myself.
She took all my blades away from me and made me promise to stop completely.
I tried, I really did, but I failed massively.
It took two weeks for me to relapse and sneak another blade, and a further two days for her to realise I'd done so - this was also the first time she called me "an attention seeker".
After this relapse, though, I was genuinely determined to stay clean.
I had days where I sat in the dark, flicking rubber bands against my wrist and blasting my music so loudly I could focus on nothing else; I had days where my biggest achievement was getting out of bed because I felt so weighed down and heavy that I couldn't even function.
I was depressed, yes, but that doesn't give me an excuse for doing the things that I did - I was terrible to everyone; I screamed and yelled whenever anyone got on my nerves, and I completely ignored people who tried to talk to me when I wasn't in such a good mood.
When I was four weeks clean, I decided it was finally time to tell my three friends about what had been going on, because they'd been so incredibly supportive despite not knowing the full story.
They all cried when I told them. And they proceeded to cry for the next few days.
My best friend out of the three broke down in the middle of class the day I told them, convinced that she was a terrible friend and should have noticed sooner. The three of them were in such a state that they physically couldn't get home by themselves, and so my best friend's mom had to pick them up from school and drop them at home - this is what loving someone who self-harms does to you.
They were so incredibly supportive, though, buying me a pack of Smarties every week I was clean for. I was in the phase of eating healthy and exercising at the time, so when I reached six months clean, my best friend printed a bunch of pictures of things and quotes that made me happy (I have these to this day) and baked me low-fat brownies (they were completely disgusting, but I ate them purely because she'd made them for me). They were my biggest supporters, and I appreciated them to the moon and back - I honestly don't know what I'd have done without them and I love them all so much despite the fact that we no longer talk.
I saw around four counsellors over the next few months, but my mom hated it and so convinced me to act 100% okay and happy whenever we were there - I was discharged before I was even halfway to being okay, but I understand why she did what she did now.
I did get better, though, and I'd have brief periods of depression lasting around a month each scattered in between the periods of normality and almost-but-not-quite happiness.
I was just under two years clean before I relapsed once again.
I can't remember what triggered it, but I remember feeling a sense of overwhelming relief when I drew blood on the clean skin of my hips. I kept it up for two weeks, cutting anywhere between 2 and five times a day until there was no space left the cut. This was one of my darkest times of depression, and I couldn't even manage to make it to school and back without cutting - there was a blade on me at all times, and I took to spending my lunch in a bathroom stall, blade in hand. It got to the point where I couldn't even function but my smile was so bright and so fake that no one picked up on it - until I swallowed a handful of pills and waited to die.
I didn't die, and I am so so thankful for that.
I was being stupid and selfish and I regret it completely - my parents found the empty packet of pills in my room and I spent the evening trying to stop feeling dizzy and sobbing my apologies while they deliberated on whether or not to take me to the hospital.
I didn't go to the hospital and get caught in yet another web of psychiatrists, but I'd learnt my lesson nonetheless - I knew I didn't want to die, and I was nothing but grateful that I was still alive.
I was then clean for four months (the blades stayed untouched in my little tub full of bandages and antiseptic spray) before relapsing once again. This time, I cut for a week before getting clean again.
The last time I relapsed was four months ago, and I only cut twice - I then packed my blades away for the final time.
Only three weeks ago, I threw all my blades away and stepped on the tub filled with bandages that I'd had for almost four years.
Now, almost four years after the first time I cut, I regret my actions more than ever.
Every time I see the scars scattered all over my body, I feel physically nauseous and I'm doing everything I can to fade them even a little.
I started this campaign to try and finish the process of my recovery; I wanted to show others that self-harming is not a positive thing and that nothing good whatsoever can come from something so utterly evil - cutting or hurting yourself is just as bad as if your skin was slashed or burnt or hurt repeatedly by a stranger, and no one deserves that.
Please, if you're considering self-harm or know someone who is, just don't; if you actively self-harm, stop, because though you're trying to avoid the pain you're only causing yourself more for the future.
It's not worth the harm it causes, and to all of you who've bounced back and fixed yourself: we're all proud.
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So that was my story, and I hope to hear yours soon.
If anyone wants to talk about anything mentioned here, or something else completely, feel free to pm me on this account or my personal - @secretsandtea - and I will be more than happy to listen and give the best advice I possibly can
~ Saffron x
