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It was like I was bleeding inside, desperate for some kind of hope. Nothing seemed real. Every cut, every scar had a painful memory to endure. I remember the first time I cut myself out of anger and frustration. I was in the 8th grade at the time and it was 1968. Abused by my parents on a regular basis left me with no self esteem and a desire to hurt myself on a regular basis. I would cut my wrists, feeling no pain whatsoever.

Back in 1968 self mutilation was almost unheard of so the shame of doing it only made matters worse. We all know the stigmitism evolving around any type of mental health issues so imagine telling the world I suffered from bipolar and I was a self mutilator. I had no support from my family as they felt this self mutilation thing was a ploy for attention. They couldn't have been more wrong. I guess in a way it was a cry for attention as opposed to a ploy for attention.

After the last beating that my father gave me I cried out to a friend and told her I wanted to die. I was in school at the time and I took a journey up onto an overpass that led to a major highway below. I was set on dying when the school counselor found me and asked to see me. Apparently my friend was being a friend and told the proper school authorities.

From that point on, things went from bad to worse with respect to my cutting. Any chance I got to cut on my wrists and arms, I would take it. I was institutionalize at age 16 and diagnosed as paranoid, schizophrenic and manic depressive, what they now call bipolar. It was a horrible institution. A place where more than one of us self mutilated and there was never enough staff to cover the dorm we were in to even care. I had gone from worse to worse if you know what I mean. I ended up putting my fist through a plate glass window, cutting my hand badly and I felt no pain, at least not physically.

Cutting would relieve the emotional chaos going on in my head. I finally had the inner strength to stop myself from cutting. Its been 35 years and both of my arms are still scarred. These arms are a part of me and if they could talk they would break most people's hearts as anyone who self mutilates is suffering inside. There is hope. I have led a productive life, working for the railroad and for IBM for nine years. There are no words to describe what a person is feeling when they hurt themselves but it is a sure cry for help.

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