Disclaimer: This article is not intended to make light of very serious issues and diseases, and in no way am I glorifying them. I just simply want to share my experiences.

Trigger Warning: Those suffering from any behavior of self-harm may be negatively affected by the content of this article.

I was in the fifth grade the first time I ever harmed myself on purpose. I don’t know how the trend started, but everyone in the three fifth grade classes that year had discovered an idiotic act that of course, you had to participate in to be cool. The trend included taking an eraser on the end of a pencil and rubbing it against a part of your skin, hard and fast, giving yourself a burn.

To this day, I have the little scar on the back of my left hand from the day I sat in P.E. with my pencil and decided I was going to show my peers that I could be cool too.

I had no idea that this mindless act would turn into a painful addiction not even three years later.

In the seventh grade, I started a new school – a private, Christian school. I met my best friend that year. I noticed that there was something very different about her and the relationship that we held together. We were inseparable, to an extreme extent. The first time we changed in front of each other, I noticed something very odd. My best friend had pale scars covering the tops of her thighs. I can honestly say that I was taken aback; I had never seen anything like it before. When I asked her about them, she explained to me the depths of her depression and anxiety disorders and how the scars helped her feel alive. I was confused, worried, and sad for my best friend.

Maybe I wanted to feel some of her pain, or maybe I was just plain curious. In the seventh grade, I took apart my first pencil sharpener to reveal the little blade inside. I ran it across my thigh to reveal flesh and blood. I had never made myself bleed before, but I wasn’t scared or anxious. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised at the sense of power and release of stress it gave me. This act continued on for years, and time only made it grow more detrimental.

My parents blame my habit on what happened to me as a child. I wouldn’t say I had a particularly devastating childhood though because I’m fully aware that others have it much worse. When I was around 8, one of my dad’s best friends began to molest me. I was scared, but he would continue to tell me that it was okay, he was doing these things because he loved me. And I believed him. My home is broken, and my father now lives nine hours from me. It was only within the past two years that I gained the courage to tell my parents about the years of abuse. Within these past two years, my sick obsession reached its peak.

One or two cuts from a silly sharpener blade weren’t good enough anymore. I began to use scissors and my dad’s military-grade knives. I would go to the store and buy the double-sided blades – the ones you see in movies all the time. I would lay in my bathtub and slice away at myself, hoping that some of the pain and stress would go flow down the drain. I began to binge drink, and my friends would have to peel me away from the bloody mess I’d left myself in.

In November of last year, I tried to kill myself for the first time. I drew myself a hot bath with a bottle of wine and my favorite book. I sunk into my ceramic tomb and began cutting my wrists in every which way. As I laid there, my phone began to ring. From nine hours away, my dad sensed something was wrong and saved my life.

I have gone to therapy, counseling, and am on my own path to recovery. Every day I see my scars and tear myself down, telling myself that I am hideous and should have died in that tub. But then I remember to pick myself back up and carry on.

You must look past the stressors of everyday life and find something to live for. Live for yourself, because you are worth every breath that you take.