I started cutting myself at the very end of my senior year of college. I learned from a friend. I remember the EXACT day I cut myself. I was sick of the world, sick of school, sick of people. So I cut myself, right before our choir concert. No one knew. No one knew for quite a while, until I had to admit it to my doctor at the time, with my parents in the room. It was not my ideal way of telling them. In a way it was good that they knew, because I didn't have to work so hard trying to hide the cuts and scars. I try to be honest with them, but they don't understand. I know self-injury is not the best way to deal with things. I know that. I really do. I would never recommend it. It's just that cutting, for me, makes me feel proactive. And I'm sure that makes no sense. I can't do anything. I swallow the medication they give me, and it doesn't help. I don't cut to die, I cut to live. To release pain, frustration, loneliness, rejection....and a million other reasons. It makes me feel just a little bit in control.