It all started at the end of July 1999, when my mom told me that we would not be going on our annual vacation to New Hampshire. We had been going there for more than 14 years now; it went back before I was even born. I was about to cry in the car as my mom broke the news to me because it was something I always looked forward to throughout the whole year, and I guess I finally blew my fuse. I was angry, sad, and not to mention stressed out because of the tremendous amount of homework we had been assigned over the summer.

I had seen on a TV show an episode where a girl about my age cut herself to take out her anger and sadness about a year before all of this, and ever since then I had been contemplating whether or not I should try it sometime. I decided that now was the time, and when I got home, I went upstairs to the bathroom, grabbed my razor, and as I held it to my arm, I suddenly got scared. What was I doing? Was I sure I wanted to do this? Yes, yes I was fine with it, as long as it made me feel better afterwards. So I made several cuts along my arm, although not very deep. Some blood came out, and after I was satisfied with the amount of cuts, I put my razor back, looked down at my arm, and oddly enough, I began to smile; I had not thought that this method would have helped me as much as it did. This was a great idea, and I decided that I would use it from then on instead of crying or yelling or using other methods.

My family and friends slowly began to notice the cuts as they appeared more often, and asked me where they came from. I told them it was from the side of my friend's pool where my arm had scratched up against it, and I think they somewhat believed it for a while, until my mom became very suspicious. She came into my room one morning and saw my freshly cut arm. She stared at it, and then said, "You are cutting yourself aren't you?" Her tone was so sad, it almost made me want to cry, but I quickly hid my arm under my covers and looked in another direction. Then my mom walked out of the room with a melancholy look upon her face, and I knew what she was about to do; she had figured out my secret, and now dad had to be informed. This was getting horrible.

My dad called me into his room saying that he needed to talk to me, and as I walked in, I past my brother's room, and when I glanced in I saw that he was sitting on his bed with his head hanging down in a sad manner. He knew. I sat down with my dad, and he began talking to me about my cutting, asking why I did it, and saying how much he and the rest of my family cared about me and would do anything, just please don't hurt myself. I kept my eyes on the ground, but as his voice started to crack, I glanced up and saw that my dad had begun to cry, and at the sight of this, my throat went dry and all I could do was look at him and think to myself how sorry I was that I was getting my family into this mess. My mom told my pediatrician about my problem shortly after this incident, and she recommended me seeing a psychologist, which was quickly arranged.

I went to a psychologist from the end of August to December, which was when I started having suicidal thoughts. I would get so depressed that I would search through all of the medicine cabinets for pills to overdose on, and fortunately, my mom had already hidden them, just in case something like this ever came up. I was very lucky to have one of my best friends there for me one time when I wanted to end my life, and just by her being there and listening to me, she saved my life that night, and I can never repay her for that.

After a while I couldn't hold my suicidal thoughts in anymore, and I told my mom how I was feeling. She said that it was ok, and she would talk to my psychologist about it. They talked and decided that they wanted to put me on a medication, but it was not possible to get an appointment with a psychiatrist until after winter break, which was not soon enough. So in order for me to get on medication, my parents and psychologist placed me in a hospital day treatment program, which was the last thing I wanted to do.

I was only at the hospital for four days, but it seemed like an eternity. I went there from 8 am to 4 pm every weekday, and would go up to my room and cry every night. It was horrible. We had goals, group discussions, activities that were originally made up for five year olds to play, study hall, exercises, and lunch during the day at the hospital. Group discussions and activities were the worst for me, I felt lame doing the games, and to discuss my problems in front of a group was even worse. I got on Prozac after being in the hospital for a few days, and luckily was dismissed sooner that I had been arranged to. The deal was that I had to see my psychologist every week, my new psychiatrist every month, tell my mom when I was having suicidal thoughts, and take my medicine. I agreed.

After everyone returned to school from winter break, I found out that while I had been in the hospital, somebody at school, who I am pretty sure was a teacher, spread around that I had been in the hospital for suicidal thoughts and cutting myself. The whole middle school knew about it, my grade and the 6th and 7th graders too. I will never forget when a 6th grader ran past me and shouted "Hey! I hear you burn yourself!" I almost burst into tears right then and there. These remarks were made several times, and from then on, people treated me differently and were extra careful about what they said to me. It made me feel very alienated and that made things even worse.

A couple weeks into January, I got busted at Meijer's for shoplifting two packs of cigarettes. I had to deal with juvenile court and luckily only had to write a paper and attend a session about shoplifting. My parents were very disappointed in me, and they also had to pay a total of about two hundred dollars for my actions. I felt terrible for putting them through all of this. Slowly, my shoplifting tendencies began to stop, and around June, it was totally done, I never shoplifted again, and I am very proud of that.

It has now been a little over a year since I began cutting myself. I have many scars on my arms, hands, and ankles, but I am getting better day-by-day. I see my psychologist every other week, and my psychiatrist once every three months. I am still on medication, and I think it has helped me. I am very thankful that I have such a loving and supportive family, along with wonderful friends who are always there for me. I still struggle with the cutting, and occasionally have suicidal thoughts, but I know that it will take some time to overcome all of this, and someday, I will be free of this pain and lead a successful life filled with love and happiness.