I've always been told that I was the strong one, the one everyone else looked to for comfort and guidance. I've also always been told that I was mature beyond my years. This is probably why when I started cutting I felt like such a complete failure. I could never quite figure out why I started; others have gone through much worse than I have. My home life as a child wasn't terrible - I had two loving parents, two little brothers who adored me, great friends, and a neighborhood that was really more of an extended family. This idyllic life was shattered when my dad moved out to start a new family with his mistress. My mom moved my younger brothers and I from the life I knew and loved in Pennsylvania up to her childhood town in Massachusetts. I had to start middle school in a completely new state. I was pissed, and I kept in very close touch with my old friends - to the point that I made very few friends my first year. Those friends I did make I kept on the outer fringes of my life, keeping our friendships very superficial. By seventh grade I realized that I needed to start a new life here, and put myself out there as much as I could. I couldn't hang out after school or join the after school activities though, because I had to go home to watch my brothers everyday, every night, and every weekend. I became very depressed, and very moody. I would yell at my mom and brothers, tell my mom that I hated her for moving us away from the only friends I had, telling her I would move in with my dad since he would at least be home and I wouldn't have to act as a parent to my brothers. I was so angry!

Sometime in seventh grade I started cutting. I don't remember the first time I did it, and I don't remember what set me off. I do remember having to tell my mother that I got caught on the binders in my locker, and that it wasn't a big deal. I still have the scars; although the cuts weren't very deep, they were more of repetitive scratches. I would unfold paper clips, or staples, or safety pins, anything with an edge, and I would scratch it across my wrist until I drew blood. Sometimes I would even do it in school, with my finger nails if I couldn't find anything else. I was reckless, and I didn't really care who saw. Towards the end of seventh grade I got my first boyfriend, and everything seemed to be okay for a while. But his parents started a messy divorce when we were in eighth grade, and it took a real toll on him. He would get so mad, and talk about suicide all the time. He didn't know about my cutting, but somehow he found out. I don't remember telling him, but I know I cried, and I think he left to process what I told him. Afterwards he told me to stop, that I was the only thing keeping him alive, that if I ever killed myself he would kill himself because no one else understood him the way I did. That stopped me for a long time.

We were together almost four years, and by the end it was bad. He would get so angry about what was happening with his family that he took it out on me. He never hit me, but he said terrible things, and threatened to kill himself so many times - there were nights I didn't sleep because I was on the phone with him, pleading with him to come in off his roof and just talk to me. He left bruises on me a lot of time, from grabbing me, but I never got angry with him. He would force me to do things sexually that I wasn't ready for as an 8th or 9th grader, but that never stopped either of us. He told me if I loved him I would do it; that I was the only one who could make him happy, and that was all I wanted - to make him happy. He gave me a ring when we were in 9th grade and told me that he'd love me forever. He had our lives planned. But our fighting got worse, and we would both say terrible, hurtful things that were always regretted in the morning. We broke up halfway through 10th grade, and his mom moved him to Illinois at the end of that year.

When we broke up the scratching escalated to actual cutting. I would stand in my kitchen when no one was home, contemplating which knife would do the most damage. I never cut deep enough to do any real damage, but I scar easily, so they all left their mark.

Weeks after we broke up, I started dating my best friend. He had been there for me since I moved up here, and he was my rock. I would call him at all hours of the day and night, and he would be there to talk me out of my funks. He knew that I used to cut, but didn't know that I had started again, and I refused to tell him. He was such a naive person, I didn't want to hurt him by showing him what I was doing because I loved him - I had always loved him. I didn't want him to think that he wasn't enough for me. About a year after we started dating (around my junior year) we were alone in my room, and I said that I had something to tell him. I was so scared that I had to sit down, I was shaking that badly. I rolled up my sleeves and showed him the fresh cuts and the older, lighter scars, and that was all I had to do. He broke down, and cried harder than I have ever seen anyone cry before. It took him at least 15 minutes to compose himself, and in that time I was sure that I was about to lose the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. He made me promise to stop, and after seeing how badly I hurt him I couldn't help but say Yes. Deep down I knew, however, that it was a promise I was never going to be able to keep. We continued dating, and I was hooked. He was perfect - he had been my best friend, and that didn't change. He didn't go to my high school, so the times I got to see him were amazing. He came to everything for me - plays at my school, my concerts, my brothers events - and I easily pictured us being together forever.

All this time, I was still so depressed. I couldn't figure out why - my life was finally making sense, it was perfect, I had an amazing boyfriend, great friends - so what the hell was wrong with me? I continued to cut in secret, and he never knew. If he suspected, he was so desperate to think that I had stopped that he ignored it.

By the end of my senior year of high school we had been together nearly three years, and by this point I was so convinced that he was Mr. Right. He was so smart, so funny, so considerate, my family and friends loved him, and he knew me better than I did. He knew that the move to college was going to be hard on me, and he did everything in his power to make it easier. He expended so much energy on me I was amazed that he had enough to function in his life outside of me. And looking back, I see that I didn't really give him a chance to have a life outside of me. I was so scared that if he ever left me that I would die that I rarely let him out of my sight. The summer before we left for college we spent almost every day together, and most nights ended with me in tears. I was so afraid that going to school was going to be the end of everything - my friends, our relationship - that I was spending my days in a panic. Days before he left for school we slept together for the first time, and I hoped that it would be enough to keep him.

The first semester of my freshman year was going smoothly, and I was excited that I was doing so well. And then, just as we were coming back from winter break, I got the news that one of my special needs students died. I fell apart. I could barely function - I would go to class, come back to my dorm room, and get back into bed. I cried for days, and by the time I got to his funeral I couldn't cry anymore. I had to be the rock for everyone else, to make sure that everyone else was okay. I didn't have time to worry about me. But when I got back to school, I turned to cutting. I had been so good for all those years I was with him, doing everything in my power to ignore the darkness inside. But this was too much. I started cutting, with razor blades, with the intent of leaving scars. I wanted people to see how much I hurt. I wanted help, but I didn't know how to ask. I was so angry with my student for dying, but at the same time I was so mad at myself for letting it happen - all of the same feelings I had when my parents divorced and my dad moved out. Around this time my friends and my older (step)brother found out, and everyone panicked. Some people who knew that I used to and thought I had stopped were so disappointed, which only made the cutting worse. I couldn't give it up though. It was so cathartic - the pain and disappointment and guilt would keep building until I thought I would burst. And then, when no one was around, I would take out that razor...those drops of blood were the tears that I could no longer cry. Here was the evidence that I was hurting, so why didn't someone fix it?

He tried, he tried so hard to fix it. But I was such a bitch, making everything about me - I wish I could go back and do it all over again, to prove to him that I'm not that self-centered. We came home for the summer, and I had basically stopped, but only because I had to. I work with children, so there's no way I could be walking around all summer with scars. But I was so mean, so tired, fed up with my life, and I took it out on the one person who had given me unconditional love. I wanted him all to myself, thinking that if I could just be with him all the time, I could keep the pain at bay. But it never worked; he would leave, and the pain would keep me up all night...I tried to cry. I tried every night, but I couldn't. And I would get so angry that he would leave me with this pain when he knew that all he had to do was come and wrap me in his arms and everything would be better....

I suppose it wasn't a surprise then when he broke up with me in September of my Sophomore year. He couldn't take it anymore, and I don't blame him. I wish I could make him see how sorry I am for the way I treated him, and could let him know that I don't blame him...let him know how much I miss him, and wish that he would take me back... but I know that he won't. I started cutting again after that, and my friends were on high alert, more so than usual because now they didn't have my boyfriend to back them up. It got pretty bad, and I got reckless, cutting in places people could see in the hopes that they would ask or figure it out... but they never did. The friends who knew seemed to think if they ignored it I would stop, or that asking too many questions would just make me hide it better. I wish they'd asked, but they didn't. I found out that one of my closest friends had an eating disorder, and her boyfriend is one of my best friends - they became my support group. She understood my pain, and he had always been there for me unconditionally.

I've stopped now, for the time being. I look at my niece and nephew, and I know that I need to stop, so that I don't mess up one day and miss my chance of seeing them grow up. I have plans for myself, grand plans to be a teacher and work with kids... and I can't go around with scars on my arms. I'm not proud of what I've done, but I'm not ashamed of my scars, either. They're evidence of battles that I have fought, battles I have won. I don't believe in God, but I do thank the powers that be every single day for my friends, and my family, because without them I would have given up a long time ago. And even though he hurt me, I thank my ex. He gave me three of the greatest years of my life, and his leaving me showed me that I have the strength to push on. I still love him, and I hope he knows that. He will always be part of my favorite memories. I only hope that someday he will forgive me for all the things I did and said to him - it hurt to lose him as a boyfriend, but to have lost him as a friend is something I cannot forgive myself for.

To all the cutters out there - don't give up. I know you hurt, and I know that it seems like no one understands, but I do, and there are others like us out there. Find someone out there who you trust, and let them in. Having that one person who loves you without reserve makes life worth it - and there is someone out there for all of us.