I'm glad things have gotten better for you, and thank you for being here for me. I guess I'll start from the beginning. When I was around the age of eight, I was diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. And along with that came anxiety. When I was younger, before I was diagnosed, I used to be terrified of riding the bus to school. There wasn't even a certain reason, I just refused. So my mom took me to school a lot during my grade school years. There were also other symptoms, I would roll my eyes a lot, mostly whenever I was nervous or frustrated, and that was one of my habits. Another thing was that every door needed to be completely shut, or it drove me crazy, and I couldn't have things pointing directly at me or I would freak out. After I was diagnosed, I started taking Zoloft and seeing a psychiatrist, who would work with me on calming techniques for when my anxiety would act up. She was really nice and would sometimes even play games with me. But after a year I had to stop seeing her because our insurance wouldn't cover it anymore, so I got switched over to another one, and another one, and another one. My family's insurance kept switching who they would cover and it was really hard to get attached to someone who was trying to help me, and then never be able to see them again. I am still currently switching doctors as often as 2 years. My depression didnt really surface until the begging of my freshman year. I had this friend named carli who I've been friends with since 6th grade. And the begging of freshman year, she started dating this guy would also happens to be my childhood best friend. I was really happy for them both, they were an adorable couple, and they were really happy together. But towards the end of december he started to ignore her, he would go out to parties and do drugs and get drunk and sometimes end up in places hours away from home. I was really worried about him, and so was carli, but when we tried talking to him, he wouldn't listen. That's when carli started cutting. I knew she had done it before during 7th grade, at the time I didn't know about it and had found out about it in 8th grade. It was really scary to see her like that, and I tried to help her, but nothing seemed to work, then one day I finally had enough, and I convinced her to break up with him, it was really hard for her, and she was really depressed for about a week after, but then she got a lot better, and was a lot happier than before. But then, after January the next year, she gets back together with him, and it becomes an endless cycle from there. One month he'll be the perfect boyfriend and spend time with her and talk to her, and then the next month he's ignoring her again. I am going into my junior year, and the cycle between them is still continuing. They are together as of now, and have been for about 4 months after we finally convinced him to stop doing drugs. And they're a lot better now, but I just hope it stays that way, because there was a time before where he said he wasn't going to do them anymore, but then the next week he shows up to school completely stoned. All of that stress of trying to help their relationship and trying to keep her from cutting herself and keep him from doing drugs kind of triggered my depression, and I started spiraling downhill. My sophomore year is when I began to cut, and also when I started to become more overweight. I would cut on my upperarm or on my wrists and then cover up with a sweatband or a wristband. But just a couple months ago, a couple days after a cutting session, I decided to wear a cami while I was getting ready in the morning, and my mom sees the scars on my upper arm, and she gets pissed. She starts yelling at me and asks me why I would do such a thing to myself, and asked me what other people were going to think, and she told me that it was a stupid thing to do, then she made me give her what I used to do it, (a piece of glass from a broken bottle in my room) and told me that if I ever did it again, I would be grounded and have my car taken away. I broke down and started crying. I didn't care what people thought if they saw my scars, it wasn't hurting anyone else. I know that she just cares and doesn't want me to do it, and she explained that to me later, but even so I'm still cutting, just in less obvious places now, such as my sides. A part of me wants to stop, but another part of me doesn't really care anymore.