I used to cut myself as a coping mechanism. I don’t know when I first tried cutting myself. I don’t know why I decided to cut myself. And I do not know where I first heard about cutting. I think it was from a Seventh Heaven episode, but even that is a bit hazy. But I do know that it worked. And I know that it took a lot of time and energy to stop myself.

I was diagnosed with depression in 2002, when I was in fifth grade. My mother had died the year before I was diagnosed. I would assume that was what caused my depression, but maybe you are born with it. Either way, I was diagnosed with depression during a critical age of growth for a child.

My father was also depressed after losing his wife, and my sister shut us out. We were all in a bit of a mess. As one would expect, this was not the ideal living situation for a child to grow up in.

But it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, my family wasn’t exactly normal, but we made do with what we had. We loved each other and supported each other as best as we could. But the older I got, the more I started to resent life. I was furious with the condition of my family, with who I was, and with my mom for “abandoning me.” Looking back, I find I understand that in feeling that way, I was acting like a child and that was ok because I was a child. But at that point, it felt like my world was over. In addition, I had one major problem. Although I had been diagnosed with depression, I had resisted the treatment for it. I took the medication as prescribed and everything, but I refused to be open with my therapist.

So my depression thrived. I refused to accept help or even talk about my problems, and my angst gradually began to consume me. I became so upset that I began to frantically search for any coping mechanism that could possibly help. I refused to talk about my problems. Looking back, I’m still not quite sure why. I suppose it is because I was still in denial. Deep down, I felt that if I talked about everything, that would confirm the situation. I think that I had hoped by not talking about it, it wouldn’t be real.

Finding a coping mechanism was not easy. I was against drugs and I couldn’t exactly smoke easily. At some point in time, I began cutting. Again, those details seem too vague for me to recall. Concerned teachers and friends would tell the school counselor, who would confront me repeatedly. I would turn my nose up and disrespect her, simply stating that they were cat scratches. Ironically enough, no one ever bothered to ask if I had a cat, which I didn’t. But of course, the counselor would call my father, who would talk to my therapist, who I would refuse to talk to. It was an endless circle of concern, and yet the one person everyone was concerned about refused to acknowledge she had a problem.

I never truly sought out help until I was in high school. During my sophomore year, I hit an all-time low. I suppose that was when I began to change a lot. Of course, things must get worse before they get better, and this was no different. Although I didn’t injure myself any more than I had before, I decided that I needed a change. I didn’t want to rely on cutting myself to feel better. I wanted to be happy, and I wanted to get better. So during spring of my sophomore year, I went to rehab.

It was a…unique experience. I can’t imagine any other place like it. And although it wasn’t exactly fun per say, I learned a lot while I was there. I learned a lot about myself, and I learned how to cope with my feelings.