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Both cutting and poisoning myself had escalated to the point where they warranted medical intervention. On one occasion I used weed killer to poison myself. I had turned to a range of substances to poison myself with, ranging from significant and life threatening amounts of paracetamol, to other painkilling medication, iron tablets, and psychiatric medication. The cuts got deeper, and more frequent they migrated to other areas of my body that could be well concealed, and when this no longer provided the same level of relief, I began to self-poison. I had always cut myself, but somehow the superficial cuts of my youth no longer satisfied the growing self-loathing and despair that I felt as an adult. This got much worse in my twenties, when I no longer lived at home, and where I had the freedom and independence for the self-harm to worsen both in frequency and severity. Despite people around me having some inclination about what was happening to me, no one intervened, and my difficulties continued, shrouded in a secrecy that allowed them to get worse.Īs I headed towards adulthood, self-harm was still a part of my life on a daily basis. I began to harm myself more and more severely, either cutting or burning myself and with little regard for the long-term consequences of my actions. These feelings became increasingly pronounced and at 13 my self-destruction escalated. Yet feelings of pain and struggle began to surface from an early age, when I was too young to have the words to describe what I was feeling. On paper, I had the perfect family: a Mum and Dad, and a younger sister on whom I doted. I don't remember what was happening in my life at the time, but I know I always felt alone, like I didn't fit in or belong. I started to harm myself when I was 10 years old.