She drove her nails deep into her skin, wanting the release of endorphins that spilling the blood caused. She scraped her nails harder and harder until a little red line appeared; the skin around the cut tattered and red. The cut would scab and heal but the wound, the scar, would be around forever to remind her of the mistakes and pain the past had caused. She had cried gallons of tears since the start of her depression and for the first time in a year, she didn't feel like crying. Inside of her was hollow and she couldn't help but feel numb.
Her friends would joke around with her about how bad cutting was and how stupid and deranged the people who committed the act were, but deep inside she would carry her secret to never tell anyone. She was a cutter. The girl who always got the good grades, acted in the school plays, sang in chorus, and had loads of friends was a cutter.
Soon the pain got too strong. Her first choice was never to cut the pain away; she only used it as a last resort. When poetry and writing had no effect in pushing the pain away, she became addicted. The scars would line her arms and legs, and her parents and friends would deny it. They would never believe that someone so attached would do such a thing to themselves.
The time came when no one could deny what the girl was doing to herself. The excuses repeated themselves and the scabs were too perfect to blame on an accident. Her parents took her to a psychologist to get therapy. It took many sessions, but soon the girl got better and realized that self-mutilation wasn't a good way of forgetting the pain and anguish of teenage years. Before the sessions ended, the girl was pulled out of therapy, but only by lucky chance would it be that she was healed.
The experiences with self-mutilation have taught me a valuable lesson. The same pain, when inflicted on several people, will have several different outcomes. Everything feels different to different people. Not having parents or friends who understood, pushed me to want to help others who were in the same situation. Cutting, and being addicted to it, is the worst feeling in the world. It feels as though you are falling down a deep dark hole and you have no hope of ever stopping. I don't want anyone to go though that pain.
If I had not found a way out of the deep depression I was in, I would have never realized how precious life really is. To be serious, I might not even be here today if I had not stopped falling. Some people don't think that life is special at all, and that it's horrible torture we have to go through before die. Life is what we make it; it's like a road with a billion forks in it, and we choose a fork every few minutes. I want people to know that life is precious and worth living, because the person who taught me that lesson changed me forever.