My name is Samantha. I'm 17 years old. I began cutting the spring of my Junior year in High School, something I had convinced myself I'd never do. I had been going to counseling beforehand for things that had happened to me in my life and for depression, and when the issue of self injury came up in one of the discussions, I laughed it off as something I considered stupid; that I'd never do.  I was wrong. I started off small, using the edges of plastics to make scratches along my arms I could pass off as something I got when walking down the halls of my school. I only told three people; a friend of mine, and then the couple who was counseling me. I was both relieved and surprised when they kept my secret.

That summer I spent all in long sleeve shirts, my mother never suspecting what I was doing. Later that fall, however, my cutting changed. I found that razor blades could do much more damage, and decided to switch to using them, and if none were available, than paperclips or anything else sharp that I could get my hands on. I cut whenever I had the chance, even in front of a good friend of mine. For that, I will never forgive myself, and I'm not sure if he will either.

That October, I ended up in the Behavioral Health part of a hospital. This was due to the fact that I had not only sliced up my ankles and arms, but I also tried to commit suicide.  Throughout all of this, only a few people remained constants in my life. I was able to bullshit my way out of that hospital, and then went right back to cutting. It was as simple as breathing, but as needed as air. I cut throughout the winter, keeping everyone fooled to the idea that I was alright, except two people.  One was the friend I had trusted earlier. Throughout all of this, and still today, he is there. I went back to the hospital that spring, but only for a few days. That obviously did no good, because about 3 weeks after that I made another attempt at suicide, and then almost killed myself at school. That's when I was sent to my third and last trip to the hospital, my best one yet. There I was fully able to understand how much I had hurt everyone I knew. It took me a good 2 weeks of honest work to get out of there.

I've been out of there for three months, and haven't cut since then.

Not because cutting is a bad thing.

Not because it didn't solve anything when I did it.

If I were to say that, I'd be lying.

I'm doing it for the people that stood by me.

I don't want them to stand by a corpse.

If they're going to fight for me, I may as well give them something to fight for.

Well, I may as well end this with a few words of wisdom. If you don't think you can stop cutting, you're probably right. You're not strong enough. Always hold your friends dear to your heart. And last but not least, shit happens... don't pick it up and carry it around with you all your life... let it go.