I’m in my bedroom when I draw my school compass across the thin skin on my wrist. Bubbles of blood appear. It doesn’t hurt. It’s as if I’m outside myself, watching. Immediately there’s a sensation of relief, as if a balloon has burst inside me.

August 1991, age 12

No one understands how bad I feel. I have a good relationship with Mum but I’m not as close to Dad – he’s a policeman, so I don’t see him as often because he works shifts. I miss my gran, who died last year. She lived with us and we were really close.

I’ve started secondary school and I’m feeling very unhappy. This time I scratch the compass more deeply across the thicker skin at the top of my arm. I feel an overwhelming urge to do it, which frightens me. Today I am in the bathroom so I can lock the door.

September 1992, age 13

I’m self-harming at least once a week. I do it in my bedroom or the bathroom. I look forward to it. I love putting on antiseptic and a plaster afterwards – it gives me a sense of control that I can do this, then make it better. I’ve taken the blade out of Dad’s razor and have begun cutting myself at the top of my legs. No one can see the cuts there.

March 1993, age 14

I’d stopped cutting myself for a month, but then a girl at school started being horrible to me. My hand was shaking with excitement as I took out Dad’s razor in the bathroom, then cut myself about five times across the top of my thighs. I bought lint and dressings on the way home from school.

August 1994, age 15

I’ve been cutting myself every week, at least three or four times. I must have around 50 scars on my thighs now, at least a millimetre deep. My legs and arms are a patchwork of cuts. Mum’s too wrapped up in her own problems to realise what I’m doing. She and Dad never stop shouting.

I hide my scars under long-sleeved tops and I always wear trousers. If I have to wear my gym kit, I make sure no one sees me changing. I don’t want to talk to anyone about this – I love the fact it’s my secret, but I’m scared by how much I feel I have to do it.

October 1994, age 15

I’ve finally confessed to a friend what I’m doing. She told a teacher, who told Mum. I wanted to keep it from her because her marriage is falling apart and I feel I need to take care of her. We cried and I said I’d never do it ever again. Mum kept asking me: “Why?” I just said: “It helps me inside.”

August 1995, age 16

Dad left. Lots of my friends’ parents are divorced, but that doesn’t help with the shock of him moving out. I didn’t know he’d found someone else. Me and my brother cried.

November 1996, age 17

My other grandma died and Mum went to pieces at losing her mother. I think she’s having a breakdown. I have to be strong for her. I make my brother’s tea and do the washing. I’m trying to do A levels, and cutting is the only thing that’s keeping me going. I do it at least two or three times a week now, on my arms and the tops of my legs. I cut in a set order. Oddly, I don’t feel pain, just relief as the blood appears. The cuts don’t disgust me – I’m proud of them. They’re the symbol of my suffering. Cutting controls the stress and anger I feel about my parents’ break-up, my gran dying, and having to look after my brother.

May 2001, age 22

I’m at university in Lancashire studying to be a teacher. With my finals looming I’m cutting deeper – sometimes with two blades at the same time – into my stomach. I went to see my GP because I was scared I might kill myself. He put me on antidepressants. I have a boyfriend, but I don’t sleep with him – I couldn’t take my clothes off in front of anyone.

I must have hundreds of scars by now. Some are sore and weeping, others are faded. I’ve given up trying to talk to anyone about it – they can’t understand how it helps me, which makes me angry and I want to cut more.

September 2005, age 26

I’ve been supply teaching but the work has dried up. I’m living on my own in Ormskirk and still feeling depressed. Last night I slit my wrists. I didn’t want to die, I just felt at the end of my tether. I was alone and cut into an artery with a razor. I frightened myself and immediately rang for an ambulance. Even in my desperate state, I didn’t want to die. I just want someone to recognise what I’m feeling.

I was rushed to A&E but the staff were not very sympathetic. It was as if they were thinking: “You stupid girl.” My GP referred me to a psychiatrist and I spent several months in hospital on a psychiatric ward. It’s given me some breathing space and a chance to think, and I’m seeing a counsellor. I still talk to Mum but we’re a bit distant. She has her own problems and worries. The hospital shop sells razors and I’m tempted to buy some.

May 2006, age 27

I have a job as a care worker now. I love helping others, but psychotherapy hasn’t cured my self-harming. I’ve found different ways of hurting myself. Tonight I burnt myself with a match. I’ve also found that if you use ice to numb the skin, you can cut deeper and the sensation lasts longer.

I’m living alone and feeling quite isolated. I find it hard to make friends. I want to stop cutting but it’s an addiction. I tell myself I won’t do it, but then I get home to an empty house and the temptation’s there. It’s crazy, but that feeling of relief after the cut is what I look forward to.

June 2006, age 27

I cut so deeply into my stomach, I needed about 10 stitches. I took myself to A&E and their attitude was: “You do this to yourself, why should we patch you up? We have better things to do.”

August 2006, age 27

Another disaster. This time I cut into a vein. Blood spurted out and I had to call an ambulance. In hospital they told me I had to stop this. If only I knew how. I’ve been cutting nearly every day. In despair I contacted MIND, the mental health charity. For the first time I felt as if I was talking to someone who understood, and I’m now attending a support group. If I feel that rush to cut, I burst bubble wrap instead or stamp on the kitchen floor. It sounds silly, but it helps.

May 2007, age 28

I’ve got a rescue dog! Reggie is so intuitive – he knows if I’m feeling down and puts his head on my knee. If I reach for the razors, he pushes his nose into my palm and that’s enough to stop me. I just have to look at him and he makes me happy. I no longer feel alone.

June 2008, age 29

I’m thrilled! I haven’t cut myself for six months now – the longest I’ve ever gone. Reggie is always by my side, and he’s made me feel like a new person. I’m still not in a relationship. I’d love to be, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get married and have children. I’m quite solitary, although I have friends and do enjoy my new job as a counsellor.

Self-harming has coloured every part of my life, but it doesn’t solve anything. It gives temporary relief, but then leaves you full of self-loathing. It turned me into an isolated and depressed young woman.

Now, at last, I can look outside myself and look forward. It’s been a long journey for me. Reggie has made such a big difference in my life and for the first time I can control the need to cut. I’m taking it one day at a time because I don’t know if you’re ever cured, but as each day passes I feel stronger. I know I don’t have to do this to myself any more.

Photography: Nigel Hillier. Hair and Make-up: Ava Maurar. For advice contact Mind on 0845 766 0163 or email info@mind.org.uk