“No one really cares until something dramatic happens” - Anonymous This is the quote I seemed to live by those days. One more scratch, one more mark on my body. Does it matter? No. Nobody is going to notice. Thats how I was living, One slice, mark, line, gash, cut at a time. People blame it on different things, Self Injury I mean. Some say its because of society, others blame themselves and say that they deserve it some even just want to have something they can control. I don't know why I did it, but I do know why it felt good. To release feelings and change them into a physical burden was so much easier then dealing with them. It wasn't the right choice, but it felt good to ignore the real problem. But still I sat there with a silver sliver of a blade and take it to my skin.

School was a trigger, if someone mentioned something about a sharp tool or warned not to cut yourself I almost couldn't deal with it. I would itch and scratch my arms. Trying to feel something close to what the blade could bring. I covered my arms with bracelets. I already did because I liked the style but this was one more reason. I felt like nobody noticed how I would bottle up my life and hide I'm sweatshirts. I didn't care what people thought or what I looked like. Nobody cared anyways.

It started December 2012. My friend told me that she had started cutting while we were at a school dance and it got me thinking. That hole night I thought; Why would someone ever do that? Whats the point of Injuring yourself, whats that benefit? So I asked her a few days later. She told me that it helped her anxiety, and that it was a really good release. She also told me to never do it and that she didn’t want me to become addicted as she was, but I was 14. Curious. I needed to try it. so in January I did. I told myself just once. No more. Only to know what it feels like. Only to feel control. Just for a minute.

The first blade came out of a pencil sharpener. It was small. It didn’t cause blood. It was really only a red mark. But it counts, all of them do. Weather they are a cut, a burn, a slap to the wrist with a rubber band. All of it counts.

After that first one I looked for excuses to. Now I realize this. I searched my life for the flaws and excuses. After the third time, marking little red lines on my skin i was hooked. It took two weeks for me to choose to ignore that I was supposed to find an excuse. When my wrist started to itch I knew I needed to add one more line of distraction to my body. So I would. One cut on my thigh, the next on my hips. One more to my stomach and maybe my ankles. Next would be my wrist, but only after the others disappeared. I told one friend, and then another. I didn’t need an excuse anymore. It took me another month and a half to come to my senses. After two months of searching my life for excuses I started to stop. There were relapses, but eventually I moved on. More of my friends found out, and it was over until August 2013. I brought all of my blades to summer camp to throw them into the lake. Before I had a chance to do so, one of the councilors named Carrie pulled me aside and told me she knew I had them. I didn't know what to say. I tried to explain myself and she wouldn't let me. She told me we had to go see Carol, the camp directors wife who held half of the response. She asked me why I had them and I told her I just had nowhere to get rid of them and needed to desperately. She told me we had to tell my mom, and I asked if I could wait until the morning. She said yes, and that I had the choice to go home or stay at camp. I told her I wanted to go home. I couldn't stay at let my mother have a week to deal with this on her own. Plus it would have been very awkward there. She didn't want me to, but it was still my choice. I was told that I could go to carries room to calm down so I didn't look like I was crying to he other campers. I didn't really care anymore but I agreed for the sake of everyone else. I reflected and asked myself how she knew. Then after awhile went back to my cabin to answer a million questions about where I was. Then I went to sleep with tears still in my eyes.

The next morning I called my mom, telling her I wanted to go home. She came and I told her about my cutting experiences through a long Letter I had written while waiting for her to arrive. She cried, but only wanted to know why. I told her I didn't know, because I still don't. We went home and I started therapy. I have been in remission ever sense.

A few days after coming home the friend that first told me about cutting messages me on Facebook. She knew why I went home because of the look on my face. Camp wasn't over, so I asked why she was home. The day after I left she had gotten into a situation like mine. A councilor had seen fresh cuts on her body and she got in trouble. Carrie told her that camp wasn't for recovery it was for worship. From there on I still don't like to associate myself with that church. I kept in touch with the friends I had made, and never really went back other than one or two times. I realized that they didn't really want to help. Or Carrie didn't. My cabin mates had fun that week without me and now I have been clean for over a year.