I am sixteen years old. I have Obsessive compulsive Disorder, Severe Anxiety, and Clinical depression. Everyone thought that it was teenage angst. It wasn't. Three years ago, I felt empty. There seemed to be a vacuum in my stomach that ached. I was utterly empty. I would get flashes of feeling, and I didn't know whether or not I liked them. They were a pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but they were real. REAL people felt these same feelings. I wanted to feel that way. I wanted to feel SOMETHING. I don't know how it started. I think it was the day I was cleaning out my desk, and I found the blades. The extras for X-acto knives. I'm not sure how I began. I just know that I needed to feel something. To know that I was standing on solid ground. I would never leave marks on my wrists. They were too exposed. My thighs were the next best thing. The lines and scars would blend in with my huge, purple stretch marks. There are still 42 marks on my pale legs. I sometimes feel like an addict. I see knives and blades. I want to feel something. Anything. I haven't put a knife to my skin in 3 years. I think about leaving 42 more marks every. Single. Day. None of my friends know about the scars. There is one girl in my class. She has bigger lines, lower on her legs, spelling out a word. I'm not sure what it says. I've never asked. My friends dislike that girl. They say that she's strange, messed up, asking for attention. I know that I should stand up for a fellow sufferer, but I don't want anyone to start asking about my 42 marks. I am 16 years old. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Severe Anxiety, and Clinical Depression. It's not teenage angst.