Shattered Glass

Copyright Jaded

All my life my parents have been getting seperated on and off. In 8th grade though they decided to get the real deal, a divorce. This news pushed me over the edge. I have been depressed since I was ten, I think. Always thinking about death and why daddy and mommy always yelled at each other and never kissed each other like other mommys and daddys do. So one day my mom told me she was seeing another man. That she and my father weren’t in love, (I knew that), and that she was leaving me.

So that night while everyone was gone I was washing dishes. I was so angry though. I threw one of the glasses to the ground. As soon as it hit our concrete floor it shattered and I collapsed. I knew my father would be angry I had broken a glass. I started reaching out on my knees picking up shards of glass, crying. I could barely see through the tears so I just sat there crying, knowing that now I couldn’t even fake like I had a family, that I was happy. The pain was so harsh so cutting into my soul I couldn’t bear it. I felt as if I was going to implode if I didn’t do something with this pain. I squeezed my hand tight around the pieces of glass I had managed to pick up before my vision went. The sharp edges digging into my palm somehow made it a little less painful inside. So I took one of the bigger shards and pressed the glass into my skin. At first they were just little lines, little red happy lines. It wasn’t enough though. By the end of the night I had about fifteen small cuts up and down my left arm, and about five deeper ones. I was numb. There was no pain, no tears, just crimson trailing down my arm dripping off my limp hand into the sink, after I managed to stand.

The feeling of that night was so addicting. I wanted more, I felt little emotional pain, if any for the next year. I didn’t cry when my mother left. I didn’t scream or yell when I got into fights with my brother and sister. And dad, he was gone too often to ever be seen. At about halfway through my freshman year my father was around more, drinking. My brother and sister were old enough to get away from him. I was left alone. He started to hit me now, for no particular reason, and still I was numb. I cried now though. I cried because I knew what I was alone. Even with friends around, I was alone.

I grew to be happy with my razor though. It took away all the bulshit. It still does. I am nothing. I cut to know I feel, to know I am still breathing. I let my blade touch my skin, because it’s a an old familiar friend. Till this day I don’t like other people touching me that much. I even have problems letting my boyfriend touch me, and trying to be intimate is sad, I’ve even cried a few times. I hate myself, and my blade loves me, it surrounds me with scars that prove who I am. And yet people call what I do a sickness. Maybe it is. Maybe I should find the cure. But I’m scared too, this one thing has gotten me to this point. I know it sounds insane, but it’s what’s kept me alive.


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