Warning: Self-harm and self-inflicted injuries are discussed in this article.

The other day, while scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I saw a graphic consisting of diagonal parallel lines, captioned with the phrase, "If you see more than lines, I'm sorry."

I'm not proud to say that I saw more than lines; instead, I saw my scars from high school.

I am proud to say that cutting is not a part of my life now, but that doesn't mean that I'm completely "fixed" or "better." It still affects my life, from how I cope with a bad day to how I approach my relationships. It still affects how I see myself.

To be honest, I'm not sure how to explain why I started cutting in ninth grade. The best explanation I can offer up is that it gave me control during a time that I felt powerless. When I cut, I could let it all the frustration and confusion out. I didn't have to bother anyone, and therefore I thought that I was self-reliant and even helpful. No one had to worry about me.

I'm not sure what more I should tell you. I could confess and say that I first cut myself on my 13th birthday after a disastrous session with my therapist — who I ended up seeing later that week anyway — when I panicked and confessed to my stepmother. To this day, I'm still not sure if she told my dad about it. To my memory, he never asked about it, but, being fair, that week was a blur.

The day that I celebrate in regards to self-harm is April 8, as it was my wake up call. I could romanticize the story and simply say that my boyfriend helped me recover. This is true, but I would be leaving out the fact that my wake up call was him breaking up with me. (It's okay! We're back together and happy!)

To say that I stopped self-harm in an attempt to get my high school sweetheart back may sound pathetic, but for me, it's not. It was my junior year when I decided to quit. That was the year that my dad and stepmother divorced. That was the year that my stepmother tried convincing me to run away, tried convincing me that my father was the abusive one, not her. This was the time that I turned to cutting the most, and I didn't plan on stopping until one day, I confessed to my boyfriend.

My boyfriend was the brightest part of my life during this time, and to lose him, especially because of an aspect that I thought made me stronger, was devastating. When I resolved to quit, it was to get him back, yes. However, it soon became my way to reclaim myself. My situation, be it by fate or by God, improved and so allowed me to heal faster, allowed me to find better alternatives (like drawing on myself, or writing if I do get the urge).

That is not to say that I didn't slip up once. I did. Or that I haven't reconsidered my decision to quit. I have. This is to say that I see my scars in a group of lines, but I know that I can look at my body and know that there are no scars and that I am strong.

Quitting gave me the control I needed. It proved that I was self-reliant and brave. But yes, it was hard. Yes, I cried when I finally confessed to my dad, and I still cry when I confide my past to close friends. Yes, my arms still itch at times when I get stressed, and yes, I still think about it.

But I can never explain to you why I started, or how it felt because I don't want you to think that I miss it. I don't.

When I talk about my experience, I talk with love because I'm trying to make up for mistreating my body. I speak with love so that if someone hears my story and they're struggling with self-harm, they know that I understand and they're not alone. That I am ready to listen, that I'm ready to help.

I speak in love so that no one has to quit alone.