This isn't entirely about self-harm. It's just that it fits under a few of the categories and cutting was my biggest problem... so here it is. My story. I'm clinically depressed and I just turned 14. I'm at that age where there's so much going on and nothing is what it should be. I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder who I'm looking at, and if I even want to know. I can smile, talk, and act completely normal. But the scars on my wrists prove that it's just that - an act. Last December my cousin came to visit. She was 14 then and has had more sex with more guys in more positions than I can count on a hand with a thousand fingers. She takes drugs and goes to wild NYC parties that I wouldn't want to go to in my nightmares. I'm surprised she hasn't been raped and murdered. Anyway, whenever she's here with the family she causes fights and absurd drama. It becomes too much. She's tearing the family apart, and into shreds. I'd been thinking about suicide a while. Just thinking. Passing thoughts. But it was the huge fight that finally caused me to snap. I came within inches of taking my own life before my cousin actually saved me. I won't go into detail, obviously, but I realized after that how utterly selfish it is. Suicide. The word still sweet on my tongue, I keep my thoughts to myself. I remember another fight, later, where I ran out screaming because I couldn't think, couldn't hear my own voice in my head, my heart.... When I came back inside I ran upstairs and hugged my cousin (we're close despite everything) and I blurted, "I've never wanted to kill myself that much," and she cried and kept me there in her arms like I was going to slip away. It was a couple months before I fully came to terms with what I'd done. It was shortly after that that she visited again. March, now. Spring Break for her in NYC. She gets two weeks and one was spent here with us. No big drama, nothing this time. How lucky. But a couple weeks later, painful memories raced through my mind, like demons screaming inside me. And all of a sudden the perfect skin of my arms was begging me... release... pain. Emotional pain. Physical is easier to deal with. Distract yourself. There was nothing sharp in the room. I couldn't leave the room or I'd be seen, so I used my nails that first time. My nails and my braces. And it didn't bleed, not that time. But the sting felt good anyway, and I felt calmer, less intensely hurting. It was perfect. I fell quickly to a cutting addiction after that. At first just scratches with my nails. One afternoon, at school, I took a thumbtack from my French teacher's desk and started tearing open my wrists with that. There was still no blood. But I was craving it at that point. The blood release needed to be side-by-side with the pain. So I gritted my teeth and pressed down harder. I cut about six times a day after that. Deeper. Deeper. Redder scars. The satisfaction when a bit of blood turned into a stream of it. A couple people noticed, but I lied about it. It's easy to lie. People are gullible, and I'm good at it. I wore sweatshirts sometimes so people wouldn't see. But in Florida, it's not that easy. You can't wear long sleeves if it's over 100 degrees. You just can't. So I wore duct tape bracelets. Lots of kids do. But those got sweaty and I was worried about infection. Turns out, those don't match Confirmation dresses either. So that was when my mom saw. At Confirmation at church on Sunday May 2. I lied to her, too. She wanted to believe me, so she said nothing more. The next day, I was scared about that, still. So in all the sweltering heat I wore a sweater (I don't own long sleeve shirts). She told me to take it off. She asked what I was hiding. We walked to the car and sat there and she demanded to see my arms. I was caught. She cried the whole way home and took me to a psychiatrist later that week. One and a half pills of Lexapro every night. I can handle that. Next came counseling. I don't need it. I can stop on my own. She doesn't believe me. But I haven't cut in almost two weeks. After six times a day, that's a pretty good break. And that was on my own. I'm not going to sit here and tell you counseling helps. I hate it. I don't want to talk. I don't like talking. But maybe it will for you. I'm not going to say meds work. Usually they don't. It was my parents' reaction that snapped me back to reality, and Adam's (my boyfriend of 9 and a half months) reaction one night when he had to talk me out of suicide. After seeing them, how they acted, the guilt got to my head and I just stopped. All of a sudden, my social life is kicking in and I'm more confident and more outgoing.... Life changes. Things change. People change. I'm not going to tell you what else I went through that made me as dark and depressed as I was, but it was a lot. More than you would think a 14-year-old girl would've gone through. And it all started a long time ago. But I recovered. I'm on the way to having back who I was before, and Adam couldn't be happier. My friends are proud. My parents are still worried. I'm heading off to boarding school next year to start over. I can't wait. Anyway, on to the point. No matter how bad you think it is, don't end it. Don't. I tried, and failed, and now... things are better. I never, not once, thought that would happen. I care about all of you on this site. Please, please, if you're ever really thinking about taking your life, or starting self-harm, talk to me or someone here. And don't be deluded enough to think no one cares. At the very least, no matter who you are, I care. Because I've been down that road.