My first attempt was in seventh grade. I took a tiny little kitchen knife and sawed at my wrists until blood dripped down in rivers of crimson. They weren’t deep enough. The deep and intense pain shook something inside of me, it grasped me so tightly that I knew there was no going back. I was addicted to the feeling the simple yet devastating action of slitting my wrists gave me. The pain, the shock, the shame, and then the relief. After all, if you can feel pain your body must be doing something right.

I remember walking around school constantly paranoid, would they notice? God, what will my friends think? The latter I figured out soon enough.

My sleeve had raised while putting my food in the crappy microwaves the school provided. My friend had asked, “what are those?” I look down to see my throbbing red slices on full display. But I shrugged and pulled down my sleeve.

“Did you do that?” I shrugged again.

Shortly after this incident, I found myself sitting at a table that was halved in people, not that I really minded, and whispers caressing my ears. Yeah, what a ‘friend’ she was.

I realize now that if I hadn’t went to my mom a few weeks later, I would’ve done it. Even after going to her I only stopped for a bit.


I felt utterly alone. I had no support from my friends, my teachers, my mother, no one. So it was no surprise that another attempt came after this.


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