Cut

It was the seventh grade, and we had an art project due. I had been terribly stressed out over this project. I mean, it was worth so many points. If you failed it, it could flunk you. The thought of flunking scared me nearly to death. And to go hand-in-hand with the stress from that, my mixed feelings for a friend of mine, named Chris, drove me mad.

I was in my room, cutting out shapes to finish the collage, when the phone rang. Not now. Please not now, I thought. I sighed, set down the scissors, and answered the phone.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey Aleita...What's up?" it was Chris.

I smiled. "Not much..." I laughed.

"So uh...Did you finish the art project yet?" he asked.

"No." I said. "You?"

"Haha, you're pretty funny."

I tipped my head back and resisted the urge to crack up.

"Hey, you know Kylie?"

"Yeah. She's like...My best friend."

"...Has she said anything about me?"

His words robbed me of the air that filled my lungs.

"Aleita? Are you still there?"

"Uh...Yeah, yeah. I mean, no, she hasn't."

"Oh. That sucks. I kinda have a crush on her..."

"Oh, well, I gotta finish this project. Bye."

"Bye?"
And I hung up the phone. I shook my head and tried to concentrate, once again, on the art project that I so desperately needed to complete. I attempted to cut out a triangle, but I was shaking too badly, and it turned out to be nothing more than a blob with a point. Damnit...Focus, I thought.

I tried again. The gleam of the silver from scissors caught my eyes. I paused, entranced. Before I could stop myself, the scissors were open, pressed firmly against my wrist.

I drew the blade carefully across the skin just below my palm. For a moment, there was a thin, pale-white line left behind. Then it over-filled with a luscious, bright crimson red. Immediately I felt free; like I could handle the world, and stand anything it threw at me.

*
I had many more nights like that, believe it or not. Eventually I evolved in my methods, trading up to razorblades and steak knives. Within a year I had perfected the act of self-mutilation as though it were some kind of art. I could do it anywhere, with anything, so long as I could bleed.

Statistics show that an entire percent, A WHOLE PERCENT, of this Earth's population, self-injures. Not until I began researching it this past summer did I realize I've actually been doing SI for seven years. I was an anorexic, a bulimic, a biter, a pincher, a scratcher, a burner, a drinker - All by textbook definitions.

Every time I felt the kiss of a razor against my skin, and every time the blood drizzled down my arm and dripped from my fingertips, I was fixed. I was complete. There was nothing that could stop me or make me feel down. It used to take just one cut, but, over time, I needed more. I was slowly but surely becoming addicted to the marks on my arms, legs, and shoulders. I was falling a victim to my own emotions, damning myself to the worst of fates.

It became a regular thing. Wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, go to school, come home, relax, do homework, take a shower, cut, go to bed. A day that hadn't been followed in this exact order (save the weekends) was one gone unfinished. The urge to open a new wound would grow stronger as I slept, and the morning would be filled to the rim with my blood.
A year into my sickly enjoyed habit, it dawned on me; this was a bad thing. Normal people didn't do it. And that is when I decided I needed to stop. So I did, for a month. During my triumph I told my friends and mother about my past, believing that's all it was, and that that's where it would stay. How wrong I was...

About a week after I revealed my secret, my grandmother passed. I was overwhelmed with feelings of sadness, loneliness, and guiltiness. My only comfort was the blade.

Throughout the next year, the cuts were deeper; the scars were more visible. I was loosing control. My mind was spinning wild tales of suicide, and I frequently had dreams of taking my own life. On December 2nd, this year, I acted out one of those dreams.

I over-dosed on my anti-depressants. That night I was taken to the hospital, where they drew my blood and decided the dose I had consumed wasn't lethal. Still, my mother checked me into a mental home.

I stayed there for five days. I made friends with a boy named Jordan, and we're still in contact. The therapy I went through taught me a lot about myself. I learned more coping skills than I ever thought existed. As for Jordy, he has opened my eyes. He has shown me that I am valuable; that my blood is precious, and it shouldn't be wasted over petty teenage drama.

I've been 'clean' for three weeks now. My scars have healed, and I feel stronger than ever before. I honestly think I can pull through this time, because I know I have so much to live for.

"Self-injurers are not crazy. They're not psychotic. They're not freaks. And they are not ALONE."