I now think of depression as pain. It’s a kind of living death, a nonfeeling that is its own sort of agony. The problem was, I always knew exactly how dead I was, how my mind had shut down. There was still this consciousness of what I was losing. Everybody who is depressed is aware of what they’ve lost. That’s the real hell of it.
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years -- minus a two year period. This website was made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.
