All my life I've lived for others, I never gave myself any true value, and based the way I saw myself on the way others perceived me. So of course when I was little I was fine. The only person I knew was my mother and she never said negative things about me. The problem was when I was shoved into the cruel world that preyed on this vulnerability. It was always very apparent to me what people thought of me. It was not long before I believed what they said. After seeing myself through their eyes there was no way that I could ever see myself as anything. I began to hate myself due to this cruelty. If I was going to have one thing on my side it was to appear to be strong. Therefore I bottled up all my feeling. No, that's false I really started to bottle up my feelings to make it ok for my parents if I smiled and acted like I was fine they were happy. This method became more refined as I had practice over the years. I got so good at it I would believe it until I was alone in my room and was honest with myself.

Poetry was my way of venting at least some of my pain, but that just wasn't enough. I would get these attacks when all of the sudden, usually at night, everything I had bottled up came out at once. Everything that those awful kids had said, everything bad that I had done. It all came out at once. My heart raced, I went into cold sweats, the floor spun beneath me. I had to stop it any way I could; I had to get rid of the pain that had me bent over in anguish. I crushed my head wildly into the wall to stop the visions, the reliving of all my pain. From an outside point of view it would look insane, yes I understood this but what would have they done. They would be as hopeless as I. The separation of my emotions became progressively worse. My emotions became so separated, and I became so used to masking my feelings, I didn't know which one I truly felt, and didn't know who I was. By this time I hitting my head just wasn't enough, and the warmth of a candle soon became a good friend. The burning warmth of a match being dropped on my wrist filled the emptiness within me. It was a feeling I still can't even begin to describe. It was a quick fix to everything until I got another attack, or now even it was used when I felt extreme numbness. I was almost always felt numb so every once in a while I needed a kick to remind me I was alive.

What was great about burning myself was I got the punishment I deserved, because the stinging of the burn didn't leave. Another great thing was it didn't leave a lasting scar so my parents would never find out. Except one of the downfalls was I always was paranoid someone knew. A funny look of a teacher, and a sheer panic would come over me. "Did she know?" "Will she tell my parents?" That was my biggest fear, my parents finding out. When my very close friends found out about it, due to a breakdown at a sleep over. I had them vow never to tell anyone. That then it would do me more harms then good. This was true at the time; I knew that if my parents were ever told I would have to get up enough courage to kill myself. How could I exist in a world where they knew it, I would have to leave, I would leave. I just knew that they would be ashamed. Ashamed of the fact I couldn't handle my own problems. Ashamed that I was different, ashamed that I was WEAK. I knew this because this is I felt about it, another downfall to self-injury. They couldn't know, my life depended on it. Who would have guessed that I would be the one to tell them?

Suicide was an alternative I could never escape. It was always there inside me, this wish to die. My suicidal feelings were much different than the need to hurt myself. In fact hurting myself kept me from killing myself. Hard to understand but true. Suicide was the ultimate sacrifice to my despair. It would take away the pain for good. I could not escape these thoughts, no matter how dearly I tried.

I don't remember when exactly I started to cut. I know that along with burning myself, I would dig my nails into my flesh until I blood filled the crevasses of my skin. If I saw blood I stopped instantly. Unlike most cases blood became a turn off, because of my fear of getting scars. The only times I cut deeply were suicide attempts, and even then I only had a few lasting scars.

Cutting was a different type of pain release, and it wasn't as productive as burning. I started to cut only because I felt I needed to take one more step toward suicide. If I slowly got used to it I would be able to complete the task of slitting my wrists and fix God's mistake. When I cut myself oddly enough it would never be with a knife or razor blade. No, I was not even worthy enough to have such a beautiful metal blade pierce my skin. I was demeaned yet still by having to use plastic, and sometimes glass to cut myself.

Fatally cutting myself was chosen as the best way to go. The only downfall was the mess it would make, but out of the other alternatives it seemed the best way to go. I thought out a lot other ones, like pills, and carbon monoxide poisoning except they were too easy. It had to be slow and painful, if I was going to put my family through this I would have to suffer for it. To kill myself I would be allowed to use a knife. If I was willing to make that sacrifice I was allowed to use a knife. Nothing too pretty though, just an ordinary kitchen knife. But I always doubted that I would ever get up enough courage to do it.

The happier I got the closer to killing myself I got. Even in all my ignorance I realized I didn't have any control over it anymore, and I had to have control over everything. I could easily snap at any moment. Then and there I decided it had to stop it, but this was in the middle of my eighth grade year. I tried to understand it; I read a few paragraphs when I got the chance on depression. I would count the days between my relapses. The highest I got was 52 days, the lowest one hour. Each time I fell I got harder to get up. After a while I just gave up, I stopped caring. I was now starting to get massive headaches. My body grew weaker everyday I survived. I became careless about treating the burns so the wouldn't scar. I cut in more obvious places. I almost wanted someone to find out. I once even wore a short sleeve shirt after mutilating. No one noticed, or cared enough to notice. I based everything on getting good grades.

My parents would love me as long as I was smart. My self-value became my grades. I had to beat my sister's, I needed my parents more than anything to be proud of me. Then everything would be OK. If I just got straight A's everything I would be fine. I did just that, but to my bitter disappointment nothing changed. It then became that had to get the plaque for getting straight A's all year. I failed at this, and it left me more disgusted with myself, because I wasn't good enough.

So on and on this continued. Then one day I looked in the mirror and didn't know who I had become. I didn't know who was. I had became so lost among the things I pretended to be I didn't know if I truly felt that way, or felt that way to please others. Who was I? Who am I? Still today I do not know. It seems utterly hopeless, the girl I once was died along time ago. She was dead and I am the shell she's left behind, the part of her that is dammed to hell. Where I am today, is where I was at the beginning of ninth grade. I wanted so desperately to stop, but knew as before it wouldn't.

Ninth grade I went into denial that it had ever happened. And when it did happen I covered it up and pretended it never happened. I created an alternate universe for myself. It worked for me, and the people around me. "Sure I was fine." I was worse than ever, I would have long periods when I didn't, but when I did it wasn't about cutting anymore. It became really close calls, and even sometimes the only thing that saved me was backing out when I was strongly suicidal. I knew I was falling fast, but what could I do. No one understood, I already thought I was going insane. Why would anyone else think differently? Then the worst most unthinkable thing happened. A fellow student Mike Smith killed himself. I'll never forget that Thursday the thirtieth of March, when we found out that the day before Mike shot himself in the basement. His sister, who was a year older than him, found him. I could only bear enough to go to his wake. It was more to support Lisa and Alex. I didn't feel anything that day and for the days afterwards, I was completely numb. On my birthday I wrote this in my Journal.

4/25/00

I'm fifteen today, only about three to four weeks since Mike Smith killed himself. I guess that's all we think about now. Makes me think of how close I was to doing the same. Except nothings the same. I have simply accepted my depression, realizing that I would be afraid of being truly happy. It seems to be the only thing I can count on. I just put on a happy mask so my parents think I'm OK, but like all masks, you have to take it off to breathe every once in a while. I feel alone even though I'm surrounded by so many faces.

I was now crashing to the bottom of a large pit even faster than before. There was no way I was climbing out of this one. I had to hurt myself nearly every other day. Of course even that was never enough. I could no longer stare at myself in the mirror, it was unbearable. I felt so guilty for wanting to kill myself it made me cut more. Then one day I got the closest to suicide I had ever been. I was alone listening to some Tori Amos trying to let out the bottled up emotions in a controlled environment. That's a joke, there's no way that I could control what came out and how much. I wrote all the awful things I thought about myself, and convinced myself that my family would be better off if I just killed myself. It was too much to take I knew in my empty heart that it was true. The emotions became so great that I started shaking and fell to the ground crying. Not the normal I'm unhappy sobs, no it was more like I was screaming. The attack lasted about ten minutes, then suddenly stopped. I knew the answer, it was there beckoning me. So sweet the thought of death seemed. How comforting it was to know that all my pain could disappear. I swiftly glided down the not exactly understanding what I was doing. It was as if someone else took over my body. I grabbed a kitchen knife went back up to my room. I locked the door, and collapsed in my chair. I sat there replaying my life, while the final judging knife awaited its plunge. I knew that this was the time it was going to happen. My adrenaline pumping, I was on complete impulse. Then a part of me unseen for many years screamed inside my head. It soon became an argument between two parts out loud. I spoke each word said within my head, it was insane, but there was no way of containing it. Screaming at myself I threw the forgiving knife across the room. Ran intently toward a sharp piece of plastic and pressed it to my skin. A red stream appeared, and dripped red tears onto the paper that lay beneath me. I let it bleed for every bad deed I had done; knowing it wouldn't be enough, knowing it would never be enough.