My life hasn't been all peaches and cream. No one's has. Then again, not everyone will go through what I have. I wouldn't wish my experience on anyone, even Robin. It's destroyed me, but slowly I'm rebuilding myself. I'm not fully over it, but with the help of councillors, psychologists, psychiatrists, medication, friends, and family I'm getting there. I'm sure everyone out there has scars. They tripped on gravel. They had an operation. They fell off their bike. The usual cuts that no one worries about. But how about scars that you caused on purpose. I have those. I have a lot of those. 80 or 90 I think. All on my left wrist. I'll have those scars for the rest of my life as a reminder of my depression. I didn't just cut the skin open, I actually dug chunks out. It's nasty, yeah. But I didn't think about that when I did it. I never thought of the scars it would cause. All I thought about was how sucky my life was. Looking back now, I don't really know why I did it. I know it wasn't for attention, but I had friends. I had good grades. There wasn't anything that seemed to be wrong. But I guess there was otherwise I wouldn't have these scars. My depression eventually got so bad that I actually did make plans to commit suicide. No one knew about the plans. I've since then burnt them. When I realised I didn't have the guts to kill myself how I had planned I thought that maybe I should just cut my wrists worse than usual. So I did. Less than 2 mm away from the vein. If I had hit it I wouldn't be around today. I'm glad I didn't hit it. Now that I'm pretty well much alright I can look at my life and know how good it really is. I want to thank everyone who helped me through this for their love and support. Thanks to you all I'm a much better and happier person.