Before I get started, you should know some stuff about me. I'm 16 and a half and female. Now maybe you can get more into the story(j/k).

I can't say that I have lived a happy life so far. It's been pretty crappy. My father was very abusive to me and my mother. He smoked pot and drank all the time. I remember when he'd come home high and screwed up and he'd lock me in my room. Then, he'd go for my mother and beat her.

Sometimes, he'd beat me. Once, I was locked in my room for 2 days. He never wanted me in the first place. When I was 2, my mother tried to get us away from him. To keep her from leaving, he held a gun to my head and said he would kill me if she tried to leave him. My mother finally left him when I was five. They divorced after less than a month of marriage.

My mother tried to make life good for me and my brother (born one moth before the marriage). I guess I didn't really start getting depressed until I was 9. She'd find notes I'd written to myself saying how much I hated myself. A teacher recommended a counselor after finding a page in my journal in which I had written, "I hate myself, I want to die" over and over again. I really did want to die. I felt that if I had never been born, then my mother would have been able to leave my father earlier.

The rest of elementary school dragged by in a haze and a struggle to like myself. I felt I was so stupid and pointless and that the world would be much better off with out me.

Middle school was horrible. I had no self-esteem, no friends and no motivation. I was labeled as weird and different. I was "very artsy" and had a "big imagination" and "expressed myself in odd ways". So, I was dubbed as an outcast.

In 7th grade, I stopped talking. I became completely anti-social. This was the year I made the first cut. I guess you could say I had become a "freak". I dressed in baggy pants and listened to hardcore rock music. I wore a long lack coat everyday (even in the summer). I hated myself and I wanted to kill myself.

One day, I was taking the silverware out of the dishwasher and putting it in the drawer. I came across a sharp steak knife and I thought to myself, "I wonder if I can still = feel pain". I had become very depressed and desperate to feel something. So I took the knife and placed it on my right wrist. I remember the comforting feeling of metal on flesh. I applied pressure and pulled. I made a half-inch cut, not very deep, and watched it bleed. The rush of pain thrilled me. I didn't cut myself anymore for a year.

8th grade: The year I reached the bottom of my downhill trip. I hated myself and I hate people. I was a complete goth and had no real friends. I was so depressed one night, I don't remember why. I just wanted to hurt myself. I went into the kitchen and got a knife. It was brand new and beautiful. I took it into the bathroom and cut myself three times. It felt so good to see my blood flowing by my own hands, to I created and controlled this.

However, I made the mistake of telling my "best." I had cut myself several more times before my parents found out. My mother came across my journal and demanded to see the scars. She then took me out of school for 2 weeks because she thought I was suicidal and cut myself to get her attention (this was not true). When, I returned to school, my best had told everyone that I was crazy and had=20 tried to kill myself. I was so hurt.

I tried to kill myself twice shortly after this incident. The first time, I took a bunch of pills. I just ended up passing out and screwed up for a week. The second time, I placed my head on a train track when an Amtrak was coming. But I pulled away just in time. I don't know why I ever tried again. I thought about slitting my wrists but never did it.

In 9th grade, I started hurting myself again. It was in October. I had been really depressed. I took a pencil eraser and rubbed it hard across my left arm. The heat and friction hurt like hell. So, I kept doing it. I erased my skin down to the flesh. It was a nasty "burn" and it bleed a lot. It took about a month to heal. (almost 2 years ago and the scars have not faded.) I did this again a few months later but a lot more and a lot worse. Once, I was just angry and rageful so I took a dull pair of scissors and dug at my flesh until it bleed.

Last year was the worse year of SI. I started using razors and x-acto knives. I would cut myself 20 times a day sometimes. My mom caught me again and I had to stop or be hospitalized. I started back,she doesn't know, this past April. I never wore shorts so I cut my legs with a razor. I also pushed pins and needles into my arm and the veins in my wrists.

I also became anorexic this year. I went from weighing around 140 in the fall to 115 in July (5'9 and 118 now). I used anorexia as a substitute to SI. I've gotten kind of obsessed though.

This year alone, I've cut myself about 200 times and sometimes a week w/o eating. A couple of weeks ago, I got some more razors and cut myself 50 times in three days. Sometimes I vomit but I try not to do that.

Well, I don't know what else to say. (can't wait for winter and long sleeves!) or school (no breakfast or lunch and seldom dinner).

This is my story. I hope it didn't bore you.