“Throw it in!” my friends’ voices chanted to me. I turned and laughed at them. Then, I swiftly turned and threw my towel over the wall and into the laundry basket. My friends started cheering, and I just laughed.

My friends and I have a tradition, after we have track practice, we throw our towels from our shower over a small, white coloured brick wall, about eight feet tall, and into the laundry basket on the other side, because it is entertaining, and much less effort than walking around the wall to put the towel in. As stupid as it sounded, that was our tradition.

My name is Amy Parks. I’m 17 years old, and I live for track. It is my life, my release from my problems. All my friends do track, and I love them so much, I could never leave them. I have a family, two loving parents and a brat of a little brother. When people see me they would say I was really happy, and always have a smile on my face. But I have a secret, a secret no one knows about, one I could never share, not even with my friends. And the secret is I cut, self injure, self mutilation, whatever you call it, it’s the same thing. It all started when I was depressed, but I’m actually happy again, but I am left with my addiction, the addiction to causing myself physical pain with sharp items, and seeing my blood flow from the cut. It’s an addiction I can’t control, and have no plans on stopping.

That day I went home from track practice. Like any other day I went into the house, threw my shoes and bags down at the door and walked into my kitchen to say hello to my parents. But it was different today. They sat around the table. I looked at their faces, my mother appeared to be crying, my father looked tired and angry. I was confused.

“What’s wrong?” were the words that left my mouth.

My father reached under the table and pulled up a bag, and opened it so I could see the contents of the bag. Inside were my knives, my razors, and my sharp tools. I let a breath out. How had they found out?

“What are those?” I said, trying to play dumb.

“We’re not stupid Amy. Why do you do it? You have a perfect life, we don’t yell, we don’t tell you what to do, we give you everything you want. Why do you do this? And no lying,” my father’s words struck me like tiny needles. I was scared.

“We’re not stupid, we can see the blood on your clothes. Now answer the question Amy, or we’ll give you a reason to cut!” My father started to raise his voice, my mother let out some sobs.

Tears started to flow down my cheeks. I didn’t know what to say. I managed to say three words, “I don’t know.”

“DON’T BE STUPID! OF COURSE YOU KNOW! TELL US!” My father started yelling now.

Sobs were coming out of me. I felt so empty, so lost and confused. My secret was out. And more than ever did I want to cut. “I was depressed!” I said helplessly.

“That’s stupid. You’re a smart girl Amy, or so we thought, but that’s changed, we can’t even trust you now. Go to your room, we’ll be dealing with you later,” my mother finally said something.

I let more tears come out of my eyes as I walked out of the kitchen and closed myself in my room. I cried out in agony. I felt like my life was ending. I searched frantically for something sharp. But my parents had found everything. Nothing sharp was left. Then I remember the knife I had at my locker at school. The one I used after track when I needed a release. I pictured it’s shiny, sharp appearance in my locker. I craved it. I craved the sharp sting I would feel as I sliced my skin. I pictured the blood flowing out, onto the floor. It was like a rush, I felt like I needed that knife.

I went to my window, and crawled out it, went running across the front lawn and in the direction of school. I was running faster than I’ve ever run before, this was a feeling I’ve never had before. I made it to school in the fastest time I’ve ever made it. I got to my locker, and just where I expected it, I found my knife. I went to the shower room, got a towel and sat in an empty shower stall with my knife.

And I did what I dreamed of. I hacked my arms out, and felt the release I needed. I didn’t stop with just one cut though; I did many, so many. And I didn’t stop until I was very dizzy. My surrounding started to come back to me. I was surrounded in my blood. It was on my clothes, and around the shower. I pressed the towel to my arms to try and stop the blood. Some of the cuts were gaping; I didn’t mean to go that deep.

I got up weakly and threw the blood soaked towel in the laundry basket, over that white wall, which now had my blood on it. Little did I know that that was the last time I’d be throwing in the towel. That this episode would mean I would be stuck in a mental institution for months, after getting numerous stitches on my arm. I didn’t know that an addiction could change my life forever. But it did, and every day I have to live with my consequences.

I no longer cut, but I’m not better yet. Recovery is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Everyday is a battle against myself to not relapse into my old habits. But now I have the support of my parents and my friends to help me down. If I give in, I’d be setting a bad example. I can recover fully and I can live a normal life again. It’s been a real challenge, but my job is not done until I stop others from going down the same path as me.