It began with a book, Cut by Patricia Mccormick. I read around my junior year in high school. It is about a girl who picks up an exacto knife one day and just began to cut herself. The way the author described the rush of adrenaline and endorphins that the main character would experience as she drug the blade across her skin made me curious of what it would feel like to cut. I questioned trying it for a while, then dismissed the idea.

Fast forward a year or so, when I was 16, to a point in my life I would rather forget. I became sexually involved with a man I had no business messing. He had a certain "power" over me that I allowed him to have. A power that did not allow me to tell him no. I secretly wanted it to happen, but when it did I knew I had done something wrong. That i had forever changed the way my life would go. I could not stop going to his house, it made me feel dead inside, but I could not stop. Then one night after I left, I took a shower and began asking myself "what the f*ck have I done?" Feeling empty, like the world was falling on top of me, I searched for a way out, a way to get through the emptiness. Then I remembered the book, and quickly grabbed my razor and dragged it across my leg. The sting, the blood, the rush all made me feel like there was something inside of me, alive almost.

After that I cut often, because of stress or an argument I had with someone. It let me "get out" things that I was holding in. It got to the point where I would cut at least once a day.

I stopped for a while, thought I had it under control even though I knew deep down that I was not "cured", if there is one. It started again recently, I couldn't resist the blade. In the beginning the cuts weren't deep, only enough to really bleed. Now they are going deeper and deeper, I needed stitches at least once.

Maybe one day I will stop, but for now it gets me through. Helps me cope with life.