"f.u.c.k.", Read The Knuckles...
I started cutting myself back in 2007. I had to switch schools and was all alone. I had already been pretty depressed for about two years. For some reason the though of self mutalation just became appealing to me. I went a couple months before anyone found out. My friend's mother found a picture of my scarred wrist on his phone. She called the school, & the school called my mother. They kicked me out until I went to KYS (Kettering Youth Services).
I was in that hospital for about two weeks before I convinced them to release me. Though I had not stopped cutting myself, I have a very persuasive tone. I would have been fine if my mother hadn't found my left over razor in the bathroom floor. After that she forced me to go back into the hospital. I was not very happy with her decision. Once I finally got my aunt to let me move in with her in South Carolina, they released me. So I moved away and things slowly got better. I was still cutting at first, but things stopped after a short while.
I went almost two years without cutting myself. I did not body damage, other than piercings and tattoos. Though there is a lot of drama I'm not including in this, because the details are long. Long story short, I'm cutting myself yet again. Only a select few friends know about it. Most of them want to kick my *** for doing it again, after I was doing so good. I don't honestly care though. It's my body and I'm going to do what I want with it. I'm not going to push them away just because they care, but I'm not going to listen all the time. Pointless advice personally, I already know it's bad for me.
[[If you don't understand the title to my story, "F.U.C.K." is carved into my knuckles. Oh, and please excuse my spelling]]