I started self-injuring myself a long time ago. I would prick my fingers with glass from broken Christmas tree balls. I didn't call it Self-Injury then. I didn't think anything of it. I eventually stopped doing that when my fingers hurt too much to do it anymore. I remember trying but it hurt too badly for me to get any blood. When I did it I would press a tiny shard of glass between my fingers until i felt it pop through the skin. Then I would look at it and pull out the piece of glass, squeeze my finger and watch the blood droplet appear.

Then in the summer of '98, I started cutting. I don't exactly remember where I got the idea of cutting. I think my first cuts were on my legs. They didn't bleed which is what I wanted so my first starts at cutting were somewhat frustrating. I cut my arm and that didn't bleed either. Since it didn't bleed I wanted it to become infected. I got ink from a pen into it and tried to prevent it from healing. I still have the scar from that long ago cut. It didn't ever become infected though.

No one noticed that cut even though I never tried to hide it. I often made up what I would say if someone asked but they never did. I stopped that cutting when I went back to college. Once I felt the urge to cut but my exacto knife was in my closet on the top shelf so I didn't. When I went back home for summer vacation, my mom had decided to take my cat and her offspring to the pound. I started cutting again. This time it was more serious because I had found sharper razors. I started doing it every day. I wasn't doing anything all day except going online, sleeping, eating and cutting.

One day I was in this chat room called Depression or Suicide or something and this girl came in and asked if there were any cutters in the room. I spoke to her because up until then I had never met anyone else who did what I did. The next night I went into the room and asked if there were any other cutters in the room. I got teased out of the room. They said I was in the wrong room. So I made a room for myself called I cut myself or something like that. Then this girl who I thought was named Sarah came into the room and told me that there was already a room called Cutters and it was usually open at nighttime. She stayed to talk with me anyway and that’s how I met the rest of the cutters.

I think my cutting became more serious when I started hanging out all the time in the cutters room. I think it may be because I wanted to fit in or maybe the room is triggering. All the talk of cutting made me want to cut more. But I made a lot of friends in that room and I don't regret going in there and learning that there are so many people like me.

I didn't think I would cut when I got back to school but I still am. I haven't created any new scars. I try to limit myself to old scars and light cuts or cuts on my hand. I found out that while cuts on the hand hurt like a fucking bitch, they don't really scar much. I can see the little wrinkle but only because I know that its there.

My other scars are more obvious though. Especially the ones on my leg. My mom noticed them before. She asked me what happened. I said that I brushed against something in the basement. She counted them and said 1-2-3 6 times?! (incredulously) I said "Yeah" and moved so that she wouldn't see them anymore. She saw the cuts on my arm too. She asked me what happened. I at first said "Nothing" She said something like "There are 6 scratches on your arm. It’s not nothing." So I told her that I had brushed against something in the basement. This actually happened before she saw my leg but she left me alone anyway. Maybe she knows what I do. I saw her looking at me with a weird look on her face once. But she didn't say anything to me about it.

Well most recently, for the past few days I would say, I've been cutting every day. I don't know why. Maybe because its so close to me going home. I've been doing it on my legs again. I may have made scars. I can't tell yet.