I remember when I was little and frequently acquired various bumps and bruises. My mother would simply kiss the seemingly fatal ailment, and I was instantly healed. Sometimes I wish life were that simple again.

At the age of eleven, I stole a paring knife from the flatware drawer the first cut. It was shallow, drawing hardly any blood. At first I was slightly put off by the pain, but the liberation brought on by complete and utter control drowned any hesitation I had. Soon knives, scissors, and razorblades found homes stashed around my room.

John Lehman once said, "Power corrupts. Absolute power is kind of cool." It was the thrill of this absolute power that led to my squirrelly behavior with "sharps." It also led to the addiction. As it is with alcoholics and druggies or any other addiction for that matter, I had undergone a permanent change. After all, the saying does go, once an addict always an addict.

I've always been okay during the day, but at night I lose control, or rather; gain it, however one chooses to look at it. I can control how much I bleed, how deep I dig, and how much I hurt. It has always seemed to be a brilliant solution to all my problems or at least the perfect distraction.

Unfortunately, my attempts on control have had a perverse effect on me. Rather than gain control I seemed to have lost it. The razor now controls me. I wake up sore and bloody four out of five mornings. When I look into my mother's eyes these days, all I see is painful confusion like she's asking, "How can she help me?" and "How did this happen to my little girl?" Some nights I lay awake remembering the days when bumps and bruises were all I had to worry and Mommy could still kiss me better.