I, like many others who have submitted, have read many of the stories. My life, thank God, doesn't seem as bad as some before me. Before writing my story, I do wish everyone else good luck, and hope that.. as they get older, they will grow out of their depression.

I started SI when July 26th, 2003. I remember that night clearly. I remember wanting to cut my arms for many many months, but it was in the back of my mind. I was in love, or so I thought, with this boy. A girl had played a horrible joke on him, and he believed it to be me. He would not believe, and didn't want to speak to me. I was so obsessed over him. When he said he did not want to speak to me, I finally put my suicidal thoughts to work. I got a knife out of my kitchen, and laid my hand on my computer desk. Vividly, I remember the first time I ever had put that knife into my skin. Didn't bleed much, wasn't deep. But I loved it. I ran the knife over it a view times, and it got deeper, and deeper. Bled more and more. I cried, and stopped. What have I done?

My friend David was very concerned. He told me I had to stop. Over the course of the summer, I had cut many times. Not deep, just with things like safety pins, and thumb tacks, and dull knives. No big deal. Then, I stopped. I was strong enough to stop, and I was so proud of myself. I saw the cuts on my friend's arms, and I longed to bleed so bad. But I didn't give up.

That all changed when I was caught shoplifting.

I was with my two friends, my best friend Elizabeth and David. We went into Claire's, and I saw some earrings that my friend wanted me to buy for her a few days before that. I had money, but I had become a shoplifter, I stole everything I had. So I stuffed it in my pockets. I saw the manager staring at me, and I knew she knew, so I took it out of my pocket. One. Not both. Then we walked out, and the manager stopped David. She asked him for the earrings, and he said he didn't know what she was talking about. She threatened to call the cops, and I didn't want my best friend to be accused of stealing, so I walked over, and handed her the earring. She told me she would have to call my mother, and Elizabeth begged her not to. I told the manager that if she did I would get beat (as I often did) and I would end up killing myself. She was cold hearted, like the rest of the world, and told me if I didn't give her the number, she would call the county jail. Scared, I gave her the number. They called my mother, and people in the store walked by and stared at me. I cried, and began to cut with my finger nail. Elizabeth stopped me, and I thank her for it. My dad picked me up and said that the manager had told him that I said I would kill myself, and he threatened to drive me to the mental institution. I told him I needed to be there, I didn't want to cut. But when I said I wanted to be there, he refused to take me. The worst mistake of his life.

I went home and got this safety pin that was sharp and thick. Beautiful. I cut vertically, right on my wrist. And it bled. It was beautiful. I had to write a paper to my dad saying what I did wrong, and was grounded till Christmas. (This was in September). My parents let me off, because I had gotten good grades.

But I didn't stop cutting.

I cut mostly with safety pins and thumbtacks. I cut for many reasons, and I can't remember most of them. Then, I remember, one night before soccer practice, something had happened. And instead of making one usual deep cut, I had cut many times all over my arms. Many, many cuts. I loved it. I went to soccer, and tried to hide it. But I know my team noticed.

Ok, so, many cuts later... My friend gave me a razor blade. Not a shaver razor, a good, utility razor. It was so beautiful. I had no reason to cut, and my parents were in Florida, but I needed to cut. It was a need. So I did it. One puny cut on my forearm. It bled. And I LOVED IT. So I made a lot of scratches on my forearms, wrists, and ankles. Then, for a big one, I started at the tip of my wrist, and drove the razor to where the vein is near the elbow. It bled a lot, and again, I loved it. I was at my grandma's, and she came in the room. Quickly i threw my razor in my duffel back, and through my jacket on, and rolled down my pants. No sign of anything, just thinking. She asked if I was all right, and I lied, and said yes. I then got the razor blade out once she left and cut more. Beauty at its finest.

Two days after that, parents still in Florida, I was called into the Counselors's office. She said all my teachers had noticed my arms. And me, going to a Private Catholic school, and all, they had to be in my business. She checked my arms and ankles, and said she would call my parents.

She never did, they were away.

Then a week after, my counselor had asked me if I told my parents myself. Of course not! I told her that. I went home, and my mom was saying why she was going to kill herself, and I got so upset. I said to her, "JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU GET A CALL FROM MY SCHOOL." Locked the door, and cut. With my dad's sharp pocket knife, I had flushed the razor down the toilet. Big mistake. But yes, I cut. Small. I knew the school would see it. I then ran. Ran from my house. Sat in the park on a bench. Then my mom's van came towards me.

She told me to get in. I obeyed, and she was in tears. She had a crazy look in her eye, and didn't turn around to the way to my house. She kept going. She turned and was driving 70, straight into the woods. I asked her what she was doing, and she stared me in the eye and said, "Brittany, LETS DIE TOGETHER!" With the tears in my eyes, I gasped, and opened the door. I jumped. I jumped and ran. Ran down the street screaming with the tears in my eyes. Crying, screaming, "HELP! HELP ME PLEASE!" None of the cars that drove by stopped. None. I heard tires squeal, and the car back up. My mom turned around and drove the way I was running. She told me to get in the car. I ran more, I didn't want to get in with her. She was insane. She told me to get in, and I thought of my sister. Alone. I got in. She wanted to know what I meant by her getting a call from the school. So I held my arm out.

And then she knew.

But no, I didn't stop cutting. I started using erasers, also. They didn't bleed, but were so painful. They burn your skin off. Leave a lovely scar. I erased my legs. I have 5 eraser scars on one leg, and 4 on the other. My ankles are cut up. My arms are scared till no end.

Since that time my parents have witnessed my cuts once more. But that's it. They haven't looked for help, nothing. They have seen me use coping skills, for example, cutting up a doll. But that made them think I was worse. I made them both cry, which didn't stop me, but made me cut more.

My family is also broken. I have an uncle in jail, who has damaged my grandparent's house severely, and abused them and my father. I have one aunt with a baby who should have never happened. I have the uncle who left her. I have a severely depressed aunt. I also have her husband, an uncle who hates my father and thinks he is sleeping with my aunt. I have a cousin who is in college, who makes my aunt's (who is depressed) life a living hell. My other cousin is beginning to SI. It makes me sick.

In conclusion, no happy ending here. I still cut. Cut today. It feels good to get my SI story out. It really does. I hope you all feel better, I know my story isn't really that bad. But hopefully, you all get better. Suicide isn't the best way out. Thanks, the end.