I'd been suicidally depressed for about six months already, and one night, as I went through the motions of a routine that had become commonplace to me, I silently cried on the bathroom floor at 11 o'clock at night, while texting everything I was thinking to my best friend. For the first time, he told me he couldn't handle this tonight, said he was sorry, and left. I was convinced that I had finally driven away the one person who truly knew all of me and still loved me for it, and so in a frantic haze I grabbed a pair of tweezers and scraped at a small spot on my right hand until it ever so slightly started to bleed. It took maybe 20 minutes to get that deep, as the tweezers weren't really all that sharp. It hurt, a lot. I'm a person who can barely rip her own bandaids off. This was my first time ever inflicting any amount of physical pain on myself, let alone the first time doing so for the pain's sake. I felt like I deserved it. I hoped that if I kept it up I'd eventually be capable of killing myself, because by that point I wanted, and sometimes still want, to die.
The next day, he came back and told me that his whole day leading up to that moment had been overwhelming already and that it wasn't even really me who got him to the point of shutting down. But as far as self harm went, the damage had already been done. A few days later I had a cut up soda can, and a week or so after that I had a few pieces of broken glass. I prefer the glass over anything else I've used. He knows, of course, that I do this. Nothing between the two of us changed. I just cut myself now, usually on my feet so that I can say I must have just gotten them from walking around in sandals so often.
This is the longest reply here now. Sorry. I may have rambled a bit.