TW SH
When my mom found my wrist scars, it seemed like she was more mad then sad or worried. She just went to her room and slammed the door, not talking to me until the next day. I HATE when she does that, she always tells me she loves me and then bam, it seems like she doesnt care if I live or die. I totally understand people have it way worse though. I sh in middle school around 8th grade (Im a sophmore) because my friends did it as a competition. I wasnt included but i felt excluded. So I c*t. Just one though. And there it was, the scar. I loved it, i loved the idea of inflicting upon myself and it leaving a mark. And i still feel like that. I just c*t less than 10 minutes ago in the school bathroom. Im somehow proud of my scars, like maybe when i get out of this depression that i can look back and be proud of myself. But what if i have depression for the rest of my life?