When I was in sixth grade I started getting sad. Everyone, including myself thought it was a passing phase. Only, It never did pass. With each day that year I became less happy, and more desperate for help. No one understood what I was feeling. I couldn't laugh at jokes, I couldn't bring myself to hang out with my friends. I felt like I could cry at any given second. There was an aching so bad it hurt. I tried talking to anyone. My parents, my friends, teachers, coaches...no one listened. They all said the same thing. "You'll grow out of it." That ache eventually turned to numbness. Later that year, I met a girl who was widely different from everyone else around me. As it turns out, she was exactly like me. She was also sad. Her dad had died from a drug overdose, killed himself. Her mom slept around, and had an abusive boyfriend. She became one of my best friends. I was eleven years old when I learned what cutting was. She took off all her bracelets and showed me her silvery wrists. I didn't understand why she would do something like that. It looked like it hurt. She showed me her stash of razor blades, her Prozac, and I was horrified when she slit her wrists in front of me. I remember crying as I watched her bleed out, she cried too. I never got an explanation as to why she cut in front of me, I only know that it was all I could think about since. With the passing of each day I became more depressed and more infatuated with the idea of cutting. I was twelve years old when I made my first cut. I was amateur obviously. I took apart one of those Venus razor blade refills and made a small scratch in my wrist. It didn't even hurt. I laughed. And then I cried. I didn't feel anything. I made a few more scratches before throwing out the bent razor. It obviously didn't work.

When I didn't get any happier as years passed. I went to God. I begged him to fix me. To make me happier. To make someone listen to me. To show me he loved me, but things with my family just got worse. My parents became more strict. I was in my freshman year in high school, and instead of being allowed to go to school dances or to make friends, I had to prepare for my next debate tournament; practice to become a lawyer. When I had my first kiss, I was grounded for a year. No friends, no TV, no computer, no contact with anyone. I hit rock bottom. I was truly alone. I don't know what prompted me to remember cutting, but before I even realized what was happening I was taking apart another Venus razor blade refill. I was scared and I was sobbing when I made that first incision but for the first time I felt something other than sadness. I felt pain. It was liberating. it hurt, yes, but it also felt good. I gave up on God that night. He gave up on me. I carved "Going to Hell" in my wrist before putting away the razor.

When my parents found out, I lied. I couldn't tell them that they were the reason I cut. That it was there fault because they didn't listen to me, because they had neglected to care for the past five years. I said it was because I was bullied. I was, but I couldn't have cared less. I already didn't matter, they were just giving me a helpful reminder. My dad was so furious with me he could barely form words. He wanted for me to be institutionalized. I used to be daddy's little girl, but around that night, she died. Even to this day we barely speak. My mom just cried silently. I was put on medication. it numbed me in a completely different way. They didn't realize it made it worse. I felt nothing. I became so apathetic I wanted to die. I cut more and more often. I felt less and less. It was my lifeline. I needed it to feel normal, to feel like I could still keep living.

I'm now eighteen years old. I've been off and on all sorts of medication, and nothing has worked. Regardless of whether or not I'm on antidepressants I feel nothing. I've made 32 cuts in the past two weeks. I've lost track of the cuts I've made overall. Last week my mom found out I'm still cutting. She saw the puckered red marks across my thighs that day. I vaguely remember wondering if the shorts I were wearing would be too short. She, without even looking at me turned up the TV volume and told me there was neosporin in the cabinet if I needed it. What the hell. You don't even use neosporin, you use hydrogen peroxide. That was all she said to me. Went back to her episode of BRAVO and her bowl of popcorn. She didn't even care. No one cares. I don't matter. It wouldn't make a difference whether not I was dead or not. She could have at least pretended to give a ****. I'm still living, but I'm already dead.