I don't knwo where I got the idea to actually cut, but i know i've been a masochistic girl for as long as i can remember. Like in third grade, whenever something would upset me, i'd punch walls and tear out locks of my hair, watching the fistfulls of my blonde hair fall from my fingers to my feet. My sister and my dad would hit me often, but i didn't tell anyone. in fact, i didn't even see it as a huge deal. i just felt like, 'hey, life had problems and this is one of them. i just have to deal with it." so i'd let them throw me around. i'd let my dad go in ym room and kick everything in my room, making all my toys go flying. i'd let my sister punch me when she didn't get her way. which is weird, because anything other than that i was very independent and strong about. like if somebody at school would pcik on me, i wouldn't put up with it. seeing as i'm rambling, i'll just get straight to the point. it was in 6th grade, about the first 3 or 4 motnhs into it. school was nothing but drama and stress, and it just added to everything. it would just pile up. so to make it go away, i would claw at my arms and tear out my hair. it just always made all my stres... dissapear. it was just one random day i had gotten really stressed out, that there was a regular kitchen knife in my room left over from when i was eating a mango earlier that day. i was just looking at it, wondering if just maybe, this would take stress away, too. so i took the tip of the knife and glided it all up and down my arm, <mod edit: *sparkle*: triggering>. it was an amazing feeling. so from then on, i continued cutting. i went from sneaking in kitchen knives into my room, to thumbtacks, to razor blades. i was sharpening my eyeliner pencil oneday when i realized, if i could get that blade out, it would be perfect. so i fiddled with the sharpener until i finally widdled it out, and started cutting. i loved this way more than dull knives and tiny thumbtacks. more blood = more pain. the deeper i went, the better i felt. everytime i would slice up my arm, i'd wait desperately and slowly for them to heal enough just so i could do it again. then i started moving on to other places, like my legs. i found that cutting the legs was much easier because i always wore skinny jeans anyway. i loved feeling the sting of the cuts underneath my jeans when i walked. i loved that no one knew, like it was just my little secret that everyone was totally oblivious about. and honestly, it made me feel kind of special. like there was something that defined me. at least, i'd hoped that people didn't know about it. i couldn't bear to have anybody find out. i'd be so embarassed and ashamed. my whole life, kids have made fun of me saying i'm 'crazy.' i'm not exactly sure why kids would call me that. i'm perfectly mentally stable, and they know that. i guess it's just an easy insult, right? but just imagine what they'd think if they knew i was cutting myself. they'd probably ask me why, and wouldn't understand me if i'd explained it to them that it actually made me feel good. that it actually helped me forget about all my stress. people did understand that basically, it's a lot like a substance addiction. right? and one day, i was experimenting with new blades. the ones from actual razors you would normally shave with. i didn't like them, because they were thin and flimsy and stung way to much. on my third flick, it happened. it spread open quickly and all this blood started pouring out onto my hands and onto my bed. both of my hands were trying to catch it, and they were both covered in blood. it dripped down to my elbows. my mouth was gaping open, i had no idea what i had done. so i grabbed a towel and tried to soak up as much blood as i could. the entire towel was soaked. it turned from pure white, to all over blood red in an instant. i realized it was really spread open and i could see bubbles of fat inside my leg. "Mom, how do you know when you need stiches?" i asked my mom one morning while we were driving to school. "You can see the fat in the wound," she had said. my heart sank. i needed stiches, but i wouldn't get them because no one can know about me. then one morning i was offered an audition for modeling school. i was floored. i was so excited! so my mom came into my room to wake me up to get ready for my audition, and i didn't notice that my leg was sticking out form under the covers. i was half asleep when i heard her gasp. "what hapened to your leg?" she'd pleaded. i sat upright, and looked at her. my mouth was hanging open, and i felt my throat close up. i couldn't talk. i literally could not say a word. after probably ten minutes of her screaming at me, i finally sputtered out, "i'm a cutter." i made the audition. i was accepted and my parents were going to enroll me. only thing was, i had to cover up all my scars. while the other girls wore dresses, i wore leggings and tunics. i still looked cute, but i looked so covered up compared to all the rest of them. after my parent's found out, i was sent to therapy and eventually stopped cutting. but now i have to apply scar cream twice a day, and i refuse to go swimmin with friends. it sucks. even worse, my parents won't let me model until my scars have completely healed. modeling is lmy life. and being deprived from it is 100% HELL. i don't regret cutting at all though. it made me realize that life is worth living, and no matter what state of depression you're in, it will go away. it will fade and everything will be okay.