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  LiveWire / My Forums / Viewing Story

Am I Dead?
The following story was submitted anonymously on Nov. 10, 2007.
The names have been changed to protect the author's privacy.

I started cutting in the 7th grade. The people at school started ignoring me, because they thought I was "emo". Everybody I cared about, acted like I wasn't even there. Like I was invisable. Even my parents wouldn't look at me, because they felt ashamed that they had raised "a dark, skull-loving goth girl". I honestly thought I had died in my sleep or something. I felt like I was a ghost. Like I was dead.

So, to prove my existance, I cut. Feeling my nerves flip out, my pulse racing, confirmed that I was still breathing. Still living. Still there. One cut led to another, and another, and another. Soon my arm was full of pretty little scars. I had a scar bracelet going around my right wrist.

It was tough, though, hiding the scars, because I didn't own a lot of long sleeved shirts. I had to buy more. My mom got suspicious because it would be eighty-nine degrees out and I would be wearing a long sleeved shirt.

"Jane," she said once, "show me your arms."
I was caught. My heart raced, and at that moment I wished that I had had a razor blade on me. I hesitated and said, "Why..?" She looked at me like she knew I was hiding something. She knew.
"'Cause it's ninety degrees out and you're wearing THAT. I mean, do you think I'm THAT much of a bitch, that you would do that to yourself? Show me. Now." I really didn't want to be here. I didn't want HER to be here. I wanted to crawl into a hole, drowning in nothing but my music. And my razor. Knowing I had been defeated, I gave in, and showed her.

I felt naked showing her all the scars. She just stared at me, and then burst into tears. Unexpectedly, tears welled up in my eyes, and I cried too. "We're gonna get you help, Jane!" she wailed. "Okay, Mom..." I whispered. I felt a strange relief. I was diagnosed as a SI. No, I don't mean Sports Illustrated. I mean, Self Injurer. When my father found out, late that night, after getting home from work, he too cried. I'm progressing now, although I still have that "urge". But my friends, whom ignored me last year, are there for me now. They aren't going to screw me over. They say whenever I get The Urge, to talk to them. I now know that I really am there. That I'm not invisable. That I'm not dead.

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