I started in the second half of seventh grade (almost 5 years ago), my mother and I had just got into a fight, I don't remember what it was about, but it got to me, like they all did. She left, went to vent about me to a friend of her's and here I was still standing there after all the yelling, after all the insults, just standing there wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why I was always wrong. At that age the fights were still new to me and I was believing everything that she was saying. I was in the kitchen and I took a knife, and just made a little mark, there wasn't any blood, anything. But I liked watching the line appear, I felt like I was the one in control. It obviously got worse, soon I'd be cutting myself wide open waiting for the relief to come over me.
One time, I went about half a year without cutting, it was the year that I went to court against my mother, and my stepdad got custody of my brother and I. I went from July to about Jan. and then everything fell apart again, and I started up again.
Sorry, it's kinda detailed.
“Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help.”
-Calvin & Hobbes.