I started cutting when I was sixteen, it was simply a spur of the moment type of thing. A knife was there, and I had heard stories before of people releasing their emotions by self-injuring. My mother and I had just ended another horrible fight, so needless to say, I could use with getting some of my anger and sadness out.

I picked up the blade and stared it for a long time, admiring the way light reflected off the smooth stainless steel. Its remarkable really, how I became entranced by this ordinary kitchen knife. My eyes pored over the jagged little points, to the razor sharp tip. In my mind I replayed every bad thing to ever happen to me. I thought of when Michael died, how much it hurt to even remember the funeral, and as tears filled my eyes, I pushed my mind further to my rape. At this point I began shaking so much, the knife trembling in my hand as I furiously wiped my eyes with my free hand. I didn't want to cry, I didn't want to remember, but it was useless, I did remember, and I still do.

Slowly, I forced myself to release the breath I'd been holding, trying to stop my sobs. I hadn't thought of my rape in a very long time, at least not on purpose. Usually it simply snuck up on me in the middle of the night, like a movie reel, playing behind my eyelids, my own personal nightmare come to life.

Pinching myself, I moved on the next memory, the one of my first heartbreak. His name was Jacob and I loved him with all my heart. He was the first guy I had let even get close to me since my rape. And believe me, it took so much to just allow him to speak to me. When I finally let my guard down, we started dating, and after almost a year being together, where I was blissfully happen, minus the bad dreams, He decided to cheat on me with one of my best friends. That just about ruined me.
I couldn't breathe, or speak, or even move. I laid in bed for about a week, just trying to figure out what I did wrong, what was wrong with me. And I started to hate men. I loathed them. They sickened me to the point of no return. I couldn't understand why they all wanted to hurt me.

Around this time, my parents also decided they were going to separate, and how they did this was one night my father came home drunk and decided to take his agressions out on us. My mother, brother and I ended up calling the police after he attempted to choke my mother and threw me against the wall. Later, however, I forgave my father for this, and he is now a solid rock in my life, the one good thing I have.

So here I was sitting on my bed with a knife pressed close to my smooth wrist. My entire body was shaking to the point I had to extend a hand to steady myself. Memories flooded my mind as though they were bursting from a mental blockade I had taken years to build.

I thought of how much I hated school, and of my superficial and fake friends who would rather go to the mall than come to the hospital to visit me after I nearly died from an overdose. I thought of walking alone and having no one to talk to. I thought of how much I hate my mother, and all the times her and my brother beat me to the point I had to stay home from school to heal. I thought of everything, but I especially thought of God.

I had always had faith in God, though I didn't attend church. I chose rather to just stay home and read the bible. But over the years, and the more and more that happened, God became a distant shadow hovering over me, one who I prayed and prayed to, and never got an answer. As I held this blade, I screamed at God, I yelled and yelled til my voice was hoarse. I asked him why, why did all this happen to me. I didn't understand, I couldn't comprehend. I was so angry, my blood boiled in my veins, so enraged at Him. That was the night I lost my faith. How could I believe in someone who was supposed to take care of me and help me, and instead allowed me to be beated, raped, heartbroken, and depressed, doing absolutely nothing to stop it.

It was this moment I cut for the first time. I took the knife and slit four little red lines, spaced over my forearm, reaching to the very end of my wrist. At once I panicked as they started to bleed, but then an undescribable feeling of calmness spread over me, as though all the pain was seeping out of me with those four cuts.

And so that's how it started, and now, two years later, I'm eighteen, and my arm still bears the scars from those first four cuts, but now they blend with others, some worse, and some not so bad. Along with fresh slits, that contrast violently with the blood red color. My faith is still non existant, and my life has not improved. But now I have my knife and my wrist to take my pain for me.