I never really thought that I had much to live for in life; I spent most of my pre teen years struggling with the silent disease known as depression. Few days I would wake up feeling happy about myself, most days I woke up hating my own exsistence.but I was good at hiding my struggle from everyone, my mum, dad, and other people close to me. I look back now and I realize that they were probably the main cause of my depression. I spent pretty much most of my childhood living in the shadow of my sister. No matter how much I tried to shine my light, my sisters shined brighter. I fought for the attention of my parents. I wanted it more than anything, just for them to notice something good that I have done, but they always seemed to only point out the bad things. the more I tried to gain their attention the more depressed I got, tell eventually it got to the point where I would go home from school, go to my room, and sit in a corner crying to myself because I believed no one was there for me, and no one cared, and for a while I was right.


When I was fifteen I discovered the one thing that I thought would always be there for me, a razor blade. I began to cut, at the time I believed cutting was the only way of getting the pain that I was feeling in my heart and chest to go away, and it was my drug, my addiction. I would sit in a corner in my room and slowly cut away the pain, and watch the blood dribble down my arm knowing that’s one less feeling, and one less hurtful thought I would have to think about, or feel. it first it hurt but, it made the pain inside go away so I didn’t care, but the more I did it the less it hurt to cut, and it began to become I regular thing in my life, I relied on the cutting to get me through the struggle. I used to tell people that I didn’t cut myself to kill myself, I cut to make the pain go way, but I look back now and realize that it was killing me.


It took me a long time to realize that I had a problem. I was seventeen, depressed more then I had ever been, and on the inside I was screaming for help. Of course no one was there, so by then I was cutting for the attention. Thinking maybe if they saw it they would worry, and do something about it, but they never saw it and the never helped. So I continued doing the one thing that I thought was helping me, but actually was slowly tearing me apart from the outside, and the depression was killing me on the inside.



By then cutting was not my only problem, I relied on the drugs too. Anything I could find to take I would, mainly sleeping pills, because when I was sleeping I was peaceful. I didn’t think about my struggles I just slept, and it felt good, but eventually id wake up from my peaceful wonder land, and everything would come crashing down again, and the cycle would start all over again, cutting, and sleeping. I vaguely remember one time, I took maybe four sleeping pills hoping to over dose, and someone would come find me. I woke up the next morning lying in my floor freezing. I got up and went to school, and acted like I just didn’t try to kill myself. Picking me off the floor that day was the day that I realized that no one was going to be there for me. that if I was going to change I was going to have to do it myself.


It’s been I year since I picked myself up of that floor, and promised myself that I was going to change. Today I can proudly say that I have. Waking up every day to see the scars of my past remind me that no matter how depressed I get, I don’t have to rely on cutting.