Looking for a substitute

I started cutting when I was thirteen. Death of my brother.
I didn’t do it often or deep. I was actually using it at the time as a way to make myself look more depressed. Not really for outright attention. But for “behind my back” attention. I wanted people to wonder what was going on in my life.
I didn’t get the attention I wanted and stopped cutting for a while. About four months.
My scars were not severe, but I liked having them even if I was a little embarassed of them after I quit cutting.
As another attempt at attention, I carved “DIE” into my wrist. Quickly I was extremely ashamed of that, and cut more onto my wrist to hide the word. I felt like everyone could read it and continued to cut. Then I was worried how the cuts looked, and tried to cut them to look more random, like a cat or something was trying to grab at my wrist.
It stopped hurting pretty soon.
My friend saw it.
My grandmother saw it.
I told them it was my cat, and I’m sure neither believed me at the time.
I became more and more depressed.
People were forgetting my brother.
People were forgetting me.
I started to cut for myself when I was fifteen.
I thought for a while it meant I was stronger, because it didn’t hurt me, because other people don’t cut.
On my upper thigh, I have a large 7 or 8 inch long scar that’s raised up. Because I first started cutting there, and I would cut and re-cut the scar tissue.
It is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.
After a while I couldn’t stomach watching myself and hearing myself cut my tissue.
I would go to bed, and just scratch a spot on my back. Slow and hard. And think about other things. Tell myself I was dreaming..
I have about ten or more scars on my back from that. Raised ugly scar tissue. I can’t go swimming.
I stopped that because I did a few on my neck, arms, etc without realizing it. Not as deep, because I was in public and stopped as soon as I noticed. But still slightly scarred.
When I was sixteen I moved back to my legs.. I never wear shorts. I cut into the back of my ankle while sitting. It hurt differently. Scars weren’t as deep while I was contemplating where my tendons were.
I sat cross legged, cut into the skin on my calves, anywhere I saw.
I sat in a hot bath, too hot for me. I cut, wondering if it would make me bleed more. More scars on my calves.
My brother doesn’t love me anymore.
I started loving my scars instead of anything else. I got excited to go home and make more. Add more. Have a pain throughout my day that I can put my mind to.
I made designs like stitches up the insides of my legs.
That took a long time, I did about four cuts a day.
All the way up both sides..
My lover, who had taken me for unknown reasons knew I cut, knew since we were thirteen. She tries to make me stop, every time.
She sees the stitches in my legs and throws up. She can’t handle it, or me.
I feel jealous that she can, because it makes me feel sick to think of the blades I used..
Always different edges, razors, steak knives, box cutters, anything sharp.
I tell her I’ll quit, in the midst of a panic attack, after asking her to commit suicide with me.
She doesn’t want to die with me.
I try to stop.
I sometimes pretend my cat caught me with a little scratch, she knows I’m lying, but she’s glad I’m trying.
Now I’m eighteen.
I’m not so depressed.
I feel sick when I think of cutting.
But I still want to every single day.
And I’m always looking for things to “accidentally” hurt myself on.
I’ve already stapled myself many times at work.
I’m just clumsy now…
I really do want to stop…
And I’m so sorry that I used my brother like this, and this is what has come of it.