I remember when I was a little girl, my family and I would always watch the show 20/20. One night, there was a special on a man who self-injured. While my family was appalled, I was intrigued. I was so fascinated when he said that it didn't hurt.

I began cutting when I was 14. At first, it was out of curiosity, then out of pain. My best friend had left me the year before, with no explanation as to why. For many, this may seem inconsequential, but let me tell you that I felt like nothing afterward. She had been my only friend through elementary and the first year of Junior High. I had told her I had feelings of depression, and the one person I thought of as a sister deserted me. My mom later described it as the pain felt during a divorce. I was 13.

My first weapon was a kitchen knife. I would hardly scratch the surface of my skin, but I felt like I had some control of my life. This was something I did, that no one else did. That same year, I told my parents, who immediately put me on medication and sent me to a counselor. The medication I was one further caused problems. Its chemicals made me gain about 15 pounds and when I went off it a year later, I felt like a cow. I vowed to do anything and everything to become thin. I would go days with little or no food, and eventually came down to a child's size of 16. I also wore a size 3 in teens.

As I entered high school, I not only dealt with a borderline eating disorder, but I began to cut again as well. I attacked my legs and my arms more and more. I had always convinced myself I was never capable of killing myself because my wounds were never deep enough. After using razors and a pocket knife, I had to consciously watch the pressure so I wouldn't go too deep. I found that using fingernails, paper clips, and even needles gave me power. I would cut all the time, at home, at school, at the dinner table, and my parents never noticed.

I don't want to call my parents naive, but it was almost to easy to hide it from them. Then, one night at my new found church, my pastor discovered that I was cutting myself. Afterwards, he decided to inform my parents. It was devastating to pull up my pant leg and show my wounds to my parents. The shock hit them hard and I will never forget the heartbreaking tears flowing from my father's eyes.

For a long time after this incident, I kept my cutting to myself. As long as no one knew, it wasn't there. I have countless scars now and I continue to cut. However, there is one difference. His name is Michael. For 2 yrs. now, he has been the inspiration for me to cease my addiction. I am 18 now and am recovering slowly from both of my addictions of self injury and an eating disorder. Now, instead of taking my anger out on my wrists, I am learning to vent verbally and relieve tension in prayer. True, I have cut in the last week, but they are mere scratches and I admit I have a large hole in my wall where I continually kick, but I am glad that I have someone here to let me know that I don't have to cut, and that has made such an impact in my life. The road has been hard, but I believe God had me walk that path so I may share my story with others and perhaps help others in need.