As a teenage girl growing up in an awful household, I hate using my problems as excuses. My family puts on a show as if we’re the perfect family but we’re far from it. As a junior in high school, 16 years of age, I’ve been SI for 5 years. I remember the first time like it was yesterday. Nothing bad, or at least I thought it wasn’t bad. That was the day my life changed and I hadn’t even known it. From then on I had urges to get my hands on anything sharp.  By a year later, I was so desperate at times that I would use anything I could find.  Sharp objects had become a necessity in my life. I still didn’t think it was bad. I was still alive right? No one knew about it so I wasn’t hurting anyone right? After a year, the problem got worse.  I hid tools everywhere.  Even if I didn’t need it right then and there, having it always made me feel good. It was like a safety net.  Once in a while people would notice and say what happen. I’d lie. Who wouldn’t? Obviously no one understood so how could I tell anyone the truth? This went on for years. It made me feel good and the thought of it still does. Looking for empty places on my body was an adventure for me. After a while this whole thing turned into a big game for me. I did it when I was sad, mad, and I did it to spite someone. I would look for any reason to do it. Depression eventually set in and I had a very pessimistic outlook on life. It was to the point I was thinking about death.  June of 2008 was a turning point in my life. I injured and I was even scared. My dad found me and I was rushed to the hospital. I was forced to talk to social service workers, doctors and psychiatrists. They asked why I did it and my only answer was, “I didn’t mean to.” They asked if I have ever done it before. My answer to them was no. They asked will I ever do it again. My answer again, no. The truth was eating its way through me but I wouldn’t let them know the truth, I couldn’t. They wouldn’t understand. No one understands. They let me go six hours after I got there. They told my parents that it seemed like I just acted on instinct, that something had just set me off and that I never meant for it to be that bad. Lies. All these lies, it made me sick. For a year after this incident, I was put on medication and I was carefully monitored. I was monitored twice a week at first, then once a week and it became less and less as time went on. I hated talking to people. I had nothing to say to any of them. They were trying to make me a person I wasn’t. The medication made me happy and yeah it felt great but I was treated differently. I was treated as if there was something wrong with me. I am who I am, and I don’t want to be changed. I believe I was born this way, just like a gay man is born gay. By a year later, I was off my medication and as they would say, “stable”. People made me scared to injure again. Because how they treated me. I’m just like any other person, I just express my emotions differently. After realizing it couldn’t get worse than it already was, I began injuring again. About six months ago was the first time I’ve done it again since the incident. And now, it’s like I’m back in 7th and everything is starting all over again. No one understands, no one ever will. I need people who understand. x3