I haven’t cut in what seems to be one or two years. But the memory is still there. I know it’s been that long, because the scars are all gone. Except one very special scar under my left arm.
Some people may think that this begins happening around the age of thirteen. I can easily prove them wrong. It has been a long time ago, but I still remember it. Just a night out with my daddy. We were walking along a dock at some pond in Houston. He had promised to take me there, because the view was just spectacular. And even at the age of seven, I loved looking at the stars and listening to the sound of the crickets chirping, and the wildlife there.
They came out of nowhere. All I heard was yelling, shots being fired, and they scared me. The shots were so incredibly loud that even a few hours later, when the cops came, all I could hear was a ringing. Before I knew it, my dad had pushed me out of the way, which sent me into the water. I didn’t know how to swim.
But I was so scared I stayed where I was, looking up, my eyes open and peering at the surface of the icy cold water. I could see my dad standing on the dock, and about four or five men come up to him. One had a knife. I screamed, not physically, but in my head. An alarm went off. I tried clawing my way to the surface, but failed. I couldn’t even move. My body was locked where it was. All I knew to do was watch the cruel men stab my dad multiple times.
It took me a second to realise that I was indeed, fixing to drown. The men were gone and that gave me enough courage to grab onto the edge of the dock and pull myself up. It was hard. Eyes filled with tears, I seen him laying there, my dad, shirt covered in blood, and dead.
So I sat there, curled up, and practically digging my nails into my skin. I was crying hysterically, rocking back and forth, and just couldn’t stop scratching myself. I was putting all of my strength into doing it, and it was like I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t control it. It was beyond my control. The only thing I could do was scratch my arm.
That was at the age of seven, and that was how it all started. It continued uncontrollably, like an addiction, to the age of seventeen. I had been cutting less and less up to then, and finally found the strength to stop. I indulged myself in work, taking care of my little sister, and found ways of keeping my hands busy, away from my arms. That would explain some of why I’m on the computer so much. It keeps me busy. If I stay busy, the urge isn’t there, and it makes things easier.