I was always a peculiar child. Wouldn’t cry much. Very loud, funny… unique was a better word for me. I used to fit in. I used to be friends with everyone. I was different than them all. I knew something was different, because although I had a huge mob of friends. I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time. That changed in 6th grade.

I was sitting in class. Minding my own business. Over the loudspeakers, comes the voice of the office worker, telling me to go to the office for early dismissal.

Everyone was whispering, “Lucky,” or “Wow, of course she gets out early.” They didn’t know the reason I had been taken out. Neither had I at the time.

My brother, mother, and father were already in the office waiting for me. My first thought was, “Oh God, what happened now?” Even at such a young age, I had a good intuition. I had known that if both of my parents were at school, and my brother was leaving too, that it was not a good sign.

When I walked in, I notice the redness of my parents eyes. Someone died. The whole ride to the house, it was silent, except for my brother continually trying to start up a conversation. I was paying attention to what was going on outside of the car. Trying to figure out where we were going. Oklahoma Avenue had passed, and I knew we were going to my grandparents house.

I was trying to think of the best, as I always had.
“Maybe we won the lottery.”
“Maybe it is something good.”
It never was. When we showed up, there were cars lined up and down the street. I recognized them, family members. My aunts, cousins, distant relatives. We walked in, and everyone was gathered in the living room. Everyone except my grandfather.

My parents had dragged me and my brother to the back room. In the past, this was my grandfathers work room, we were never allowed in there. Now thinking back on it, I guess that it didn’t matter anymore.
My mother took my brothers hand, and tried to take mine. I didn’t let her, I was never a fan of touching of any sort. They looked down at their feet, and started to talk. I only got parts. “Your grandpa…...dead…...stairs…...last night…...nothing we could do.”

I didn’t cry. Not one single fleck of a tear was in my eyes. That was when it started. The first time I was able to shut down my emotions.
For the next few months, I felt nothing. Reacted to nothing. Nothing hurt me, physically or emotionally. I wouldn’t allow it. The only thing I would do was study. I acted as if I was okay. I guess I was a good actress. Because no one knew. That it was starting. It was the beginning of the road to depression. The start of the craving, the fixation I had obtained.

It started out small. I wouldn’t show up to school. I would pretend to be sick, so I didn’t have to face people. I had gained weight. A lot of weight. I started to get bullied. Daily, making it ten times worse.
At the time, I had no clue what self harm was. I was an innocent child. A friend I had, was gone for a while. Apparently she was seeing a therapist. She was caught self harming. She taught me how to, what she did, what to use. She was my mentor.

The first time I cut, it didn’t even hurt. It felt…. amazing. It helped so much I only had to do it once a day. Bad idea. As the year went on, I continued to cut once a day, making sure to take care of the cuts. Cleaning out the cut, neosporin, band-aids. I was so careful.

It continued like this until the summer before seventh grade. I had always known my parents were going to get divorced. I even asked my best friend when she thought they would tell me.

One day, near the end of the summer, they had taken me to the basement. I knew what it was for. They sat down next to me, one parent on each side. My mom was the first to talk, “Honey, we want you to know that no matter what happens, we both love you.”

“Yes, but we need you to be okay with what is going on.” My father continued.

“But, your father and I are not happy anymore. We have decided that we are getting a divorce.” My mother choked. Inside both of their eyes, were tears, glistening. Mine, they were dry. I could tell they were expecting to cry. Little did they know, that I didn’t deal with pain like that anymore. I had my own vices.

I replied, “Okay, thanks.” I stood up, walked away, and went to my room. They kept checking on me. I was either doing my summer homework, reading, or talking to my friend. I wasn’t so ignorant that I thought I could feed my hunger during the day. I waited until night, and I wrote my heart out, First in pen, then on my wrists, and arms, and legs, and stomach. Anywhere that was easily accessible.

I was a monster. Thrashing at all that I could…. I had begun to wear long sleeves and bracelets up my arms.  Staying indoors most of the time. Refusing to go swimming, or out for State Fair.

Then school started. Let me tell you, it was hell. The classes were fine, I was acing all of them. It was the people. All of the terrible terrible people. They made life a living hell. I was getting worse.

Then came the night of my best friends birthday. I was having such a good time, and so was he. I was just glad to get out of this dark hole I was stuck in. Didn’t last. I had put my phone away for the whole night. When I picked it up, there were over 20 messages on my phone. “You cow!”
“Fat ugly pig!”

“Why do you even show your face?”
“MOOOOOO!” I went and hid in my friends bedroom. Hyperventilating, I had sat on the ground, and sat there and just cried. I hated crying but I couldn’t handle it. I had nothing to use, and it wasn’t like I could just go into my friends kitchen and take a knife. They would find out. I sat there until they came to look for me. I could hear the party calling out my name. I stood up, wiped my eyes, and pretended to look at the trophies in the corner of the room. One of the party goers opened the door and found me.”

Hey we have been calling you, Do you want to cut-” Oh God, he knows. “-the cake?” Phew. Thank you.
“Of course I would.” I put on a smile and walked out. The rest of the party went fine. Everyone seemed to have a great time. Everyone except me. I was the first to be picked up. Yes. I had rushed to the car, and told my dad to step on it. Once we got home I rushed in the house, yelled,

“Goodnight,” and closed my door. I knew with all that was going on, my parents would leave me alone. So I got to work. First I started with my forearms. That wasnt enough. Then I went to my legs, not enough either. So I looked at my wrist. I had never gone down before, and I heard it works nicely. So I did it. For the first time it hurt. It hurt terribly. I ran to the bathroom to wash it, and dress it, the first time in months. From that day on I had swore to never cut again. I had kept that promise, until the first day of eighth grade.

I had never had a problem with this one boy. I had my group of friends at at first, he was welcomed. He was sort of kind, but had a tendency of being a bully. He and I got around for the most part, although we kept our distance. It had started with my friend, lets call her E. E was a very flirtatious girl. She tended to make promises she could not hold. And to that one boy, she had done just that. She had promised him that she would date him if he changed. Low and behold, he changed, became sweeter, kinder. E didn’t accept. She said that she never liked him in that way, but wanted him to change for the better of the world. Bad idea. After this scene, he had changed back to his normal, bully self. Except this time, his target was us. Now, my friend group and I had been tight for years. We were probably as close of friends as you could get. Our parents were always known as mom or dad. But the boy, he had found a way to weasel his way into the group, and break it up from the middle. Pinning it guys on one side, girls on the other. The three boys, who I had trusted with my life, had begun to turn on my friend and I. This had gone on for weeks. Until it went too far. One of the three had begun to spread rumors of my friend and I. These were terrible rumors. Rumors that can destroy a person. That day I had sent a text to all three of them.

“Do you even care about me? Did you ever care about me? What have I done to you? Really I would like to know. But really, I would like you to know something. Something I don’t tell anyone. I cut myself. I hate myself, and ever since this whole situation, I have become so much worse. Do you really want to be the reason I bring the razor to my wrist for the last time?”

No replies. Not one single reply. Days had past. I had noticed a change in the atmosphere. Everyone was staring at me. Whispering as I walked by. Even more than usual. I hadn’t realized it at first, but on the fourth day this was happening, I realized it. They had told everyone. I was called to the office that day. Apparently the news had gotten to them. They sat me down, and asked how my life was, how I was, how everything was. Of course, I had lied. Then they asked me to show them my wrists. I knew this was it, I would never be able to do this again. I pulled up my sleeves, and they wrote down their notes. When I got home that day, the news was already to my mother. Apparently one of the boys I had texted, had finally called her. She was devastated.

“You were always my perfect girl. Why would you do this. I am so disappointed in you.”

You would think this would make me feel worse, and it did, but not in the way I usually felt. Whenever a parent tells you they are disappointed in you, you feel terrible. I felt terrible. It was gut wrenching. From that day I have had so many temptations to cut again, but I am proud to say that I am officially 1 year clean of self harm.