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Everyone gets depressed, everyone goes through things that they think that they won't come out of. Not alot of people like to talk about things , but dont realize just how much talking can help.

The first time that I self harmed was in the 8th grade. It was more of an expirement to what all the fuss was about. I was so angry, and confused that I tried it. It made the pain go away. It made me calm down. It was bliss. It was addicting. I hid it well even from my mother, who im sure could be an excellent detective. However there was a period of time that I really seriously was depressed, andd I had alreasy been cutting over stupid things that I got a little carried away. My arms were covered. Nobody really knew a thing, nor did they care. Or so I thought. One day my mother saw a glimps, and lost her shit. She yelled at me and told me that if she saw it again then she would personally check me in at the crazy hospital. I stoped for a little while. Did I really want to go to a crazy hospital, with people who wanted to kill themselve, didnt want to live? Did I want to kill myself? Was I suicidal? The more I pondered the questions the more I realized that I wasnt as bad off as some of those boys and girls who decided that they didnt need to live anymore.