My dad died of AIDS when I was five years old and my mother died of AIDS when I was eight years old. So I had to move in with my grandma, which didn’t make life any easier. She hated me, she thought it was my fault my parents died — she told me mostly everyday till I was about nine or ten. I used to hit me when she was mad. She stopped as I got older. We always get in fights. I started cutting when I was eleven or twelve, I felt that since my grandma (someone who, I guess, should love me) hated me, that everyone else did too. Little did I know, I was wrong. Because over the summer of 2004, I became best friends with this one boy (I won’t say his name) and these two girls (I won’t say their names either). The boy and the girls helped me stop. See, one of the girls and the boy are dating, they’re so in love, and they told me that if I ever cut again they’d break up with each other. Of course I didn’t want that to happen so I tried my best not to cut. The reason I didn’t want to cut is because I knew I was hurting the one who cared about me and I knew that if I didn’t it could be too late when I realised I need help. I’m now fourteen and I haven’t cut since then. My story isn’t as drastic as the other ones but I feel that everyone should know that if you really want to, then you can stop.