A tear streamed down my face as I pressed the tip of a shiny, cold knife against the underside of my wrist. I shivered; not because of the cold, but rather perhaps because of the fear, the anxiety. In a single motion, I dragged the blade across my wrist. 

My own blood, red and thick, begun to redden the mark I'd made. It slowly ran down my arm, painting it a grim red. 

I moved the knife down an inch, where I repeated the process, just a little harder. 

What am I doing?

It stung, but it belittled my mental suffering. For now. I caught my breath and dabbed away the blood, discarding the paper towel I'd used. I spent a minute staring at the damage I'd done. The blood had stopped and what was left weere painful red lines across my wrist.

I cradled my head in my arms, tears forming around my eyes. I regretted it, yet it was so hard to resist. 

I hated that all I could do was pretend I'm okay, pretend that my problems were like a distant memory. I spent the next week pretending, but inside, I wanted cry. I wanted to let everything out. 

But I couldn't. Because I was surrounded by so many people. People who cared, and people who didn't. 

Later that week, I was going to end myself. I had everything planned and ready. That was when I got a DM from a friend. He was so oblivious to everything going on, and I talked to him. I let everything out. 

I didn't do it that night.