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If I've said that sentence once, I must have said it a thousand times. That's not my fault though, many things are my fault, but that one is not. I really don't know. I don't know why I do it. I don't know why he blames himself. I don't know why she was the one crying. I don't know why I can't, won't, don't even want to stop.

Ya. That's right. I'm emo. Sorry, scene. Or, for those of you still concerned with being politically correct about something that's anything but, a Self-Mutilator, though, personally, I think that sounds much worse. I haven't been for long, and I really don't mind it. It's only been a few months, though many years in the making. I've been basically depressed for the past four years, but no one would ever guess. All they choose to see is the strong, bright, happy, funny me, not the one that thinks so constantly of just cutting it short, so that's what I give them. I act. But at least I've perfected that skill to the point that I have a career that I know I'd be good at.

My depression never really exploded until 9th grade. I couldn't handle it. I don't know what 'it' is, but 'it' was overwhelming. I couldn't feel anything. I used to be the emotional kid, the SAVE THE WORLD person, but I hit a point where I really didn't care about my previous passions, so I got experimental and desperate and tried cutting. I wrote 'FEEL' into my hip, thinking it fitting.

I thought I was okay. I could handle it. Addiction was for the weak, not for me. I was invincible. But a few weeks later I was in my bathroom with my pocket-knife again, this time writing 'ALIVE' on my other hip. It kept going. I needed it. I couldn't stop thinking about it. My doodles turned dark and I had to start watching myself so I wouldn't give anything away. I was ashamed.

Then I met him. He was amazing. I told him my problem, and even then he proceeded to ask me out. So I got my very first boyfriend. I loved him, and he actually cared without panicking. He convinced me to stop. The first try failed. Right now, he asked for me to stop again for his Christmas present. I'm sticking with this one, at least until Christmas. Stopping turns me suicidal though. There really is no point. Nor is there really a problem with cutting. I don't understand what the big deal is, but it makes him happy, so I put up with the suicidal thoughts brought on by this bout of soberness with the only thing I truly have left. I'm turning to anorexia. Not majorly, if I'm with people I'll eat. But only then. Only when I have no choice if I want to keep my appearence.

I don't want to stop. After this Christmas I'll undoubtedly fall back into it. I hate doing this to him, for he hates it, and says it makes him feel caged. That's the last thing I want. I've thought of breaking up with him, or not telling him, just to save him. But I suppose I'm too weak for that and will continue on my selfish conquest.

Life sucks