Stories About Self Harm Novels & Stories

"Hi, Mandy." The amount of voices speaking back to me is more than I thought there would be when I came into this room, but as the time came closer for the meeting, people just kept streaming in. So here I am with a bunch of people I don't know, trying to fix a life that's gone completely sideways. "I tried to kill myself too," one of the girls sitting on the opposite side of the circle from me says. "Went at my wrist with a pink razor, complete with moisturizing strip."

Penelope. She arched her brow when I remained silent, and I quickly remembered her question. Have I ever committed self harm? I had tried many things before, including suicide and I feared that much would make her loss for words, but I had to relent and reveal things that I'd normally never tell to a stranger. "Yes, but all my attempts were suicidal. I have tried drowning myself, slitting my wrist, jumping off a building and even drank poison once. All my attempts were futile due to..." I trailed off, looking down as my face burned from embarrassment.

Just his hand covering mine and staying there. I kept going. I told them about what the damage had looked like on the inside. About the thoughts that had moved in during the worst periods, the ones that had said the world would be simpler without me in it, the ones I'd never said out loud to anyone because they'd seemed like evidence of something too broken to admit to. I said them now, quietly and plainly, not dramatizing them, just naming them the way you named something to take its power away. I told them about the self-harm.

Such a ludісrоuѕ claim wоuld have mаdе me thе сеntеr оf a соmmunіtу ѕсаndаl, аnd there’s nо way I wаѕ gоіng to lеt thаt happen. Thе ѕtоrіеѕ we hеаr аbоut vісtіmѕ of сrіmе аrе аll truе. Yоu dо blаmе yourself, you do fееl ashamed. I did, аnd I couldn’t gеt out frоm undеr thаt shame.

I don't want to. It's the only way? I wish I had someone to tell, I want to talk to someone and I want them to help me out of this. I need someone. I can't do it by myself. A thought comes rushing in my mind, I always keep a paperclip in my pocket as I frequently use them for school. But I knew It wants me to use it in a different way. 'Just get it done.' 'Someone out there must care about me, someone out there must not want me to do this.'

TW: Self Harm. I pulled myself away from the gruesome memory, my chest heaving fast and hard. As I took in a deep breath, my phone dropped to the floor with a thud. The rage. The pain. All too unbearable for me to manage. I needed a distraction. Some sort of pain to dull the one that was already ripping at my insides like a chicken being violently shredded with a fork. And so, I did the one thing that would help bring me back to my senses for a moment, at least. I reached for the glass cup beside me and squeezed it until it shattered, the tiny bits of it cutting sharply into my palms.

“She became an entirely different person the moment the clock started. And her approach to this theme is completely different from what I expected.” Self-Identity was not as straightforward as themes like Madness, Guilt, or Sadness. Those themes could be interpreted through countless scenarios. Take Madness, for example—it could stem from prolonged grievance or trauma, triggered by events such as the loss of a loved one, a near-death experience, or severe emotional shock.

They were the only ones who wouldn't leave me and I wouldn't leave them because we needed each other, because we were the same. Bad for society, bad for health, bad for people and left on a shelf in a dark room to never be used again because all we ever do was hurt more people and caused them to suffer. I fell on my knees crying as I gripped my short hair, the pain in my head pounding as I opened another bottle, popping painkillers in my mouth and drinking alcohol to help it out. I cleaned the bitter and shameful tears in my eyes as I gathered the money I had earned ina day.

The tattoo helped me a lot whenever it came to my mental health. It's like a remember for me that I made it out of something. I was a victim of self-harm and suicide. I was abused when I was little, too. My dad usually has a visitor; he will touch me where he isn't supposed to. The young, innocent me didn't know what he was doing. When I got to realize,, it was traumatizing for me. I didn't want to experience it anymore. She was done receiving her call, and Susan turned back to me, grinning.

Quietly she closed the door and walked back to Evie’s desk. “She said that she stopped.” The worried mother whispered. Evie handed over a box of tissues. “People who are hurting, are good at lying and telling others what they want to hear.” “Personal experience?” “Very personal. I nearly killed myself after losing my husbands. I know the desperation that some of these kids are feeling because I’ve been there.” Evie smiled and motioned for the other woman to sit down. “Doreen, I’m not a bad person. And I’m certainly not your enemy.”