I was sixteen when I first performed self-injury. That was in high school.
I was so aggravated and full of disdain by my classmates and I was severely stressed out about being better and perfect than any of my classmates. I was so desperate to remain unsurpassed by my classmates, so that the grandiosity of being better than others would bring me joy.
Instead, it brought me lachrymose, fear, and melancholy.
Due to the persistent stress from school, along with my abhorrence of my peers in all of my classes, I did something that I will never forget.
I went home and cut myself with a shaving razor. And on the next day of school, I dug deeper into my freshly cut wounds with a hair clip to prevent them from healing. Also, I had an obsession with seeing my own blood that time, though that phase is now over.
The worst part of that was that I interfered with my wounds with the sharp end of my hair clip right in front of my classmates. I got shocked reactions from them. My teacher that time noticed it as well. He did something that was needed to be reported instantly by calling the school’s guidance counselor. The school guidance counselor then had to make a phone call to my mom at home. When I got home, Mom told me that she had to check me for wounds because she was told about my first self-injury. It is beyond words to describe what the talk was about as I came clean to her about what I was going through in high school.
That didn’t stop there.
Throughout the rest of my years in high school, I still self-injured. I had to conceal my scars and fresh cuts with long sleeved clothing, so that they wouldn’t be perceived by people around me, especially during the summertime. As high school continued on, I got harassed by my peers for cutting myself, in which they were all oblivious about why I did this. It worsened my negative emotions; I was beyond distressed by them that I continued to cut myself and interfered with my wounds. Even when I attempted to report them, they all got away.
This continued on throughout my years in college.
In college, I went through the severe amount of stress and distress by my classmates and in regards to doing my best to surpass all of them, so I’d make the dean’s list. Unfortunately, people in college are the same as the people in high school. There was drama and too much provoking social elation in between my classmates, as well as people dating whereas I was single throughout the entire time. I hated all of that.
Because of the persistent stress about school work and anti-social behavior, I resumed to cut myself. This time, with nail scissors that I concealed with me at all times during my school hours. I would cut myself with the nail scissors before class begins… right in front of my classmates who were too busy socializing with one another, much to my chastisement. Then, they would notice me and say things to me or about me, in which they were all too disheartening for me to describe. I couldn’t even tell if they were calling me an attention-seeker behind my back… or they were concerned about me. Either way, I refused to even talk to them because I didn’t want their pity. I basically detest them so much that I did not want their association with me.
Suddenly, things turned to the breaking point. My sleeves to conceal my self-injured wounds fell down, exposing my self-mutilation to my classmates. In my freshman year of college where I had Communications as a required course to take, my freshly made cuts got exposed to all of my classmates, especially my professor for that course, when I went up in front of the classroom to give my assigned speech. Judging by their reactions, most of them were shocked when they saw my wounds, whilst others started laughing and talking to one another about me while I was still speaking. They never expected something like that to ever happen to me; throughout my semester of taking that course, I faked smiles, laughter, and elation to prevent exposing my macabre melancholy to them out of lack of trust. Some classmates of that course assumed that I was bipolar (before my diagnosis later on), though I turned that down and resumed being the happy-go-lucky person I pretended to be. I’m honestly not sure what they truly thought of me, but I don’t want to know. The last thing I wanted is to be judged by people I didn’t like or by people who didn’t know me that well.
As my year in college resumes, I continued to cut myself out of stress, anger, and fear. I got yelled at by a group of girls in the bathroom over something that I didn’t do. I couldn’t retaliate or defend myself, so when I got away from them, I cut myself. When I failed a history exam, I cut myself. Whenever I saw people in school socializing with one another and heard their laughters… I cut myself.
I basically self-injured whenever I was near someone or something that I abhor all the time.
Lastly, things changed.
In several classes, whereas I resumed cutting myself with nail scissors before class began in classrooms, several of my classmates saw my cuts and scars. They became concerned for me that they reported to the dean of the students. That was when I ended up in the school guidance counselors’ office.
Every week, I had to go there to talk about my mental health and my ongoing self-injury. I even got hospitalized one time to have my self-mutilation treated to prevent infection since I never treated my cuts. It was the most horrifying experience I’d ever had.
Then, one day, I learned a lesson.
The guidance counselor lectured me about this alternative. She told me to wear a rubber band around my wrist. Whenever I have the urge to cut myself, I’d snap the rubber band against my skin. It brought the same amount of pain as cutting, albeit without any permanent damage to my skin.
I did exactly that.
Throughout the rest of my time in college, I did the rubber band method. By the time I graduated from college, I persisted the method until I got over it.
Lastly, after all my years of being in school, I finally stopped cutting myself, thanks to the rubber band around my wrist. My cuts faded to faint scars.
I finally had the audacity to make this change. I got rid of my nail scissors I’ve been concealing and holding onto for years. I got tattoos on both of my wrists as a reminder to never cut myself again. Now that I didn’t have to go to school anymore, and start my new life working from home, I was finally elated enough to never self-injure again.
All thanks to this simple everyday rubber band around my wrist.
2018 is the year of when I officially stopped cutting myself. I never wanted to go back there ever again. I averted myself from everything that’s hazardous to me. I started my new beginning by becoming a published author and an advocate for both mental health and self-injury awarenesses. I changed into the fighter I am today.
I still promote advocacy for these two awarenesses on social media. I received friends and fans who could relate to me and what I went through. The elation of the amount of followers I received on both X and Instagram was enough for me to turn the pages to the next chapter of my life.
If it weren’t for my concerned classmates and help from my guidance counselors, then I wouldn’t be here today. I would’ve been on the precipice of suicide if I didn’t receive the help that I needed to treat myself better.
Thanks to the help I received from college acquaintances, school guidance counselors, and professional therapists who interfered with my life. I truly deserved to still be alive and well, and persist promoting advocacy for mental health and self-injury awarenesses.
I know that there are other people out there who could relate to me. I know for sure that I’m not the only one who went through this entire ordeal.
I’d be elated enough to share my experiences to the world and prevent others from emulating the horrid practice in real life. The last thing I wanted is for more young lives ending up where I do not want to end up.
I’m a fighting butterfly after all. I know there are other fighting butterflies out there as well.
Together, we will bring an end to self-injury and suicide.
-Nicole Cheng, 2025