I've always looked up to my sister. Before I started cutting we'd always been on pretty good terms. I remember the day I started cutting. She had a rough day and wasn't in the mood for me. I was a little bit younger than her. But she started getting angry at me and calling me 'stupid', 'young' and 'naive' and said that I'd never understand what she was going through. I went into my room and locked the door. Tears were pouring out of my eyes.

I looked across the room for something to hurt myself with. I felt I had done something wrong, that I was malfunctioning. I found a box cutter. I stared at it and sat down on the edge of my bed. I looked down at my wrist and then back at the box cutter. I dragged the cutter across my upper forearm trying to gain courage to dig it into my skin. I finally closed my eyes and pushed it deep into my arm and dragged it across. I gasped in pain.

I removed the instrument from my arm and looked at the damage I had inflicted upon myself. I had stopped crying. Blood was pouring from the open wound. I felt empowered. I was in control of my own pain. I wasn't helpless. I grabbed a dirty bath towel from my laundry and wrapped my arm. I woke up the next morning to dry blood on my arm. I showered, dressed the wound and put on a tee-shirt and sweater. I knew that I continue this. My theory was if I got used to simple pain then the pain others could inflict on me would be meaningless. I started giving myself one cut a week. After a while the pain in it was gone. It no longer hurt. I started cutting more often and giving myself multiple cuts.