it's sad when in 6th grade you think of suicide. poor girl probably abused or raped, had someone die, or is the victim of divorce. no. i'm not. grew up in a house with loving educated parents, both smart. and an astonishingly smart perfectionist sister. i never could live up to her. i guess what would hurt me the most was my parents "why can't you be more like your sister?" words of encouragement in their eyes. in mine, it was an impossible challenge. a feeling of failure, every report card, every test grade never quite as good as her. u could call it jealousy. but no. its not. its looking at my mom when she gets mad at me and seeing her disappointment. its noticing my dad shift uncomfortably in his seat when he sees i've failed once again. its my sister smiling and doing everything with such an ease.

by seventh grade, i was a disaster. beautiful friends and me. fat as could be. early development: big hips. the embarrassment of not being able to share a chair with my friends because i couldn't fit. i wanted to dress in black. but no my parents wouldn't let me. they literally would not let me express myself . my friends didn't understand me. these friends weren't the best either. lies, drama, backstabbing. adding on to the years of feeling like a failure. it was hard. it really was.

then one day, i do something wrong at home, and i get it from BOTH parents and a look of shame from my sister. i cry and cry. then they leave for dinner, invite me, but being in my state of depression, i put on a decent smile (like i had for years) and say no i'm not hungry. i continue to cry. then while i listen to a song of sadness the word suicide comes up. my thoughts from the sixth grade come flooding in. my emotions of hate, sadness, loneliness, no freedom, and failure were too much to bear.

my heart feels heavy as i look desperately for a knife sharp enough to be the cause of my death. no suicide note? no. no time for that, i had to kill myself before my family came back. so i slide the exacto knife i chose, across my wrist. it bleeds and i cry even more. it wont stop and i begin to imagine my life without me. i cover my wrist and lay on my bed. crying it felt so good. i thought "i will die with satisfaction." i don't know if i blacked out because of the bleeding or i just fell to sleep out of physical exhaustion.

i open my eyes. look at my ceiling and stare at it. shouldn't i be dead? am i? i get up.... i'm still in my room. quickly i pinch myself. i turn to pinch my arm and see the bloody remains of a slit wrist. i slide my fingers against it. it burns a little. i'm alive and my wrists are cut. the burn feels good. i do it remembering the delicious satisfaction i thought my death was. flashes of the past night come. the screams, crying, the cut, thinking, blackness. i felt better. i liked it. i tried not to think back on how good it felt to slide the exacto across my wrist and watch the blood spill right out of me. time passed the scar faded pretty good. all i had was the memory. occasionally i would cut my leg just to bring the memories back. just to feel the satisfaction one more time.

8th grade and again more emotions. then... i did yet another thing to disappoint my mother. i was at the principle's office, they called my mom and she asked to speak to me. "hello?... mom?" i knew she was there. i could hear her breathing. i could hear her disappointment over the phone. the longest silence i'd ever heard. i was devastated. any words were better than the nothing i heard. i cried uncontrollably. then, like a natural answer like "hello my name is..." i said "i'm going to kill myself today after school" i was serious as ever. and the principal saw it too. so he called in the counselors and they had to call an "expert" right.... they weren't prepared for a suicidal student. they had to call HER.

she sat and talked to me. asking millions of questions. i spilled some of it to her. but not too much. i told her how i felt i was a failure and about my perfect sister. "have you ever thought about suicide before?" "no i just said that to call attention i swear to you... i love my life." ha. like i said i'm skilled at putting smiles on and lying. inside i just wanted to tell her "yes. thought about it since 6th grade. thats 2 years. i tried it last year, and i enjoyed it so much. i cut myself from time to time to relive my stress." but i didn't. i knew that if i did i would get sent to a hospital or a rehab of some sort. so i lied about it all. went home and lied some more. they believed me. life went on. i still felt the same way. i still cut from time to time. though with less frequency.

another incident that i screwed up, and i feel yet more repressed and locked up inside. all i want is relief from it all. i remember how good it felt to try and kill myself. i go get my usual exacto.

ninth grade. i look back on it and think id left it all behind. but wait i look at myself and see that my parents have clipped my wings. my independence that i never really had. id had enough. i began to fee so concieled by them. they wouldn't let me dress how i wanted since the seventh grade, they told me not to listen to "that music". i couldn't believe how stupid id been for going along with what they told me. i decided 15 was the year id have my revolution. i began to not care about what they thought on my wardrobe. i cut on my arm for the first time since the night i tried to kill myself.

one cut. it started a centimeter long. then slowly it began to get longer. and longer. till it reached two inches long. not only the length got worse but the frequency. there were days i did it 6 times during the day. i couldn't stop. it became addictive. then i tell my boyfriend and he makes me promise no to. i love him so much that it works i stopped for a week. then one day he says "if you absolutely need to its ok" he let me down. him, the one person i though would help me through it, said i could give in. THAT only led to more cutting. my strategy to lessen the obviousness of it was to only have that ONE cut. though it got pretty deep, it was just one.

well my parents soon ask. once again my lies save me, but barely. i see doubt in their eyes as i said i scratched myself on a desk. "its pretty deep. its going to leave a scar" my dad says as he examines it. scar. never did think about it like that. a permanent mark. i brush it off. then other people start to ask at school. today a teacher asked me. he pulled me out of the class. i had to lie. only this one didn't seem convinced at all. he knows. my secret is slowly unraveling. i don't know what to do now. i guess i'll have to stop but i don't know how. i don't think i can stop it. all i know is i want privacy. why are they looking at my arm?

its obvious thats why. then i think back on it. SCAR. a permanent mark. it will be there my whole life. everyone will ask me. no matter what age. how embarrassing, an executive business woman and its clear she was a cutter as a young girl. or successful lawyer and a cutter. how about a teacher and she was a cutter. what if my children ask me? do i lie and say it was an accident? tell them the truth and taint their innocence? oh god what have i done? i'll have to quit cutting, yet i'm reminded of it everyday of my pain? for now i guess long sleeves and arm sleeves will do to stop the inquiring of my peers at school. four more years of high school, hiding it under arm sleeves and jackets, and sweaters. four years to come up with a brilliant, believable lie that EVERYONE will fall for. until then lets see what happens...