I have a problem, and I have come to realise that. Outside, I seem like a carefree person — happy and spontaneous, but on the inside I’m screaming for help and recognition. I’m nineteen years old and I have an addiction. I don’t do drugs and I’m most definitely not addicted to sex or drinking… but rather harming myself. Ever since I was in the seventh grade, I have found an escape route through cutting myself. Sure, people notice and think that I’m just trying to kill myself, or it’s just another one of those helpless cries for attention, but it’s not that at all. I feel comfort in hurting myself; I feel relief. Seeing my own blood takes away all of the problems that I have going on in my life or better yet in my mind. I feel that a part of me has gone insane and will never return. I can never go back to the happy days in my childhood and take away all of the pain that other people chose to put me threw for their own happiness. Yet, I can’t help but to feel that I am harbouring on the past and blaming other people for problems that maybe I should be able to handle myself. But here I am, a nineteen year old lesbian with parents that disapprove of my life that I’ve chosen to lead, a spilt family that was torn apart due to my father abusing my mother and being addicted to drugs and alcohol, and then there’s the little voice in my head that feeds me lies. I have started to believe these lies that myself tells me, and I feel that my razor is my only true friend. I see the marks on my wrist and I feel satisfied with what I’ve done. But then that voice comes back and calls me crazy. I wish that the voice would make up it’s mind.