I guess I'll elaborate more on my depression this time around.
After I was cutting my wrists for a few months, my mother found out. She freaked out, and sent me to therapy. My therapist was worthless, and when i pointed out that therapist had the word 'rapist' in it (after she had spent a good long time talking about things) I think she gave up on me, and we mostly just talked about food. No joke, she'd ask me what I liked to eat, and we shared recipes. She had no clue that I had an eating disorder at the time, but I digress. I also had a lady who prescribed my meds (I could never remember what exactly to call her…) and bounced from med to med for a while. I finally settled on wellbutrin xl, but it made me so sick, I hardly ate and was never hungry. Not a great idea, and not a smart thing for me to not speak up about my (now recovering) eating disorder.
I stopped seeing my therapist the day before my boyfriend broke up with me. I don't really want to go into that right now. Eventually, I stopped taking my meds. At this point, I hadn't cut for a long time. Then, a few months later, I started up again. I started having panic attacks again, and one night i just gave in. I'm not going to lie, it was worth it. The cuts were so pretty and felt so good…I love looking at them. Thankfully, it's cold enough that I can always wear a sweatshirt.
I know I need to stop, but I just can't anymore. The feeling, the need, overwhelms me. I can't go back to therapy and pills never really helped, I stopped before I started taking them anyways, and started again months after I stopped taking them (if that makes any sense)