This can’t be right, this has to be a nightmare, a bad dream, induced by too many pieces of Halloween candy. I have to be seven years old, eight years old, tossing and turning in my bed. This cannot be my life, it shouldn’t be. I’m 14 years old and I’m a self-harmer, a ‘cutter,’ though I’d rather say I cut myself. The scars on my skin are mysteriously starting to fade, not that you’d know it. You’d take a glimpse at my unscarred arms, glance at the armband on my right wrist that never comes off. You might think for a moment that my scars lay there, but realize I’m a “righty.” Maybe if you are intelligent, you think to check my legs, but no. Fitting to the summer heat, I stopped wearing long pants two months back. No one thinks to check my hips.
I’m 14 years old, I shouldn’t have attempted six times. I shouldn’t have attempted once! And please, before you comment on how many attempts I’ve made, they were fits of passion, yet zombie-like, never in my right mind, never when the sun is up and my thoughts are collected.
I’m 14 years old, and this has to be a nightmare. But it isn’t – this is my life.