Copyright, Crimson Rivulets
Here I am: Sitting on my best friend’s bed with sweat, mascara, and tears pouring down my face after telling her why I couldn’t wear a short skirt or tank-top. You see, even before I knew what I was doing, I was cutting myself. Late at night, when I was eight or nine years old, I would draw pictures on my arms with safety pins, and sometimes I would actaully bleed.
In the fifth grade, my mom had a boyfriend that was horrible. In addition to that, my guitar teacher was continuously molesting me, and I was to afraid to say anything. I remember one day, it must have been around 1:00 pm on a weekend, my mom and George (her boyfriend) had gotten in a pretty bad fight. I sat on my window sill and watched him drive wildly out of our gravel driveway. I felt bad for my mom, but I didn’t feel that bad, because the night before, she had dragged me down the stairs by my hair and screamed that I was worthless. My mom drove off after him, and I was left by myself. I started crying and picked up the phone to call my best friend, Jessi. She wasn’t home.
That night, I started cutting with a razor, and I have been doing it ever since. Mostly all of my close friends know about it and are trying to help me. Today, I haven’t cut for a week, and I feel like I can’t take it. I now know that I’m addicted to cutting and I may never be able to stop. I hope that whoever is reading my story will realise that no matter how good it can make you feel and no matter how much anger you can get out, cutting will never be a good thing.