The First Time I Cut

I still remember the first time I cut myself. I was fifteen.  It hurt, a lot.  But that was kind of the point, to release the emotional pain through physical harm.  It helped, I won't lie.  It was around two am and I couldn't fall asleep to save my life.  I hadn't eaten in about three days. 

I got up from bed, thoughts racing, and went to the kitchen for some water. I started pacing, keeping my eye on the tiled kitchen floor.  I felt anxious, overwhelmed, and suddenly wired.  My eyes landed on the utensil drawer, and I knew what I was about to do. 

I opened the drawer, pulled out a gleaming kitchen knife, and held it over my exposed wrist.  I can't even remember what my wrists looked like before I started cutting. 

I made a dozen thin cuts on my wrist.  I remember the burning sensation, and all the blood that had been shed.  I hadn't cut deep at all, but there were a lot of shallow cuts. 

I felt calm, relaxed, and relieved.  I wrapped a bandage around my arm and I went to sleep. 

A few hours later I woke and went to school like nothing had ever happened.  But the truth was, nothing would ever be the same.  All it took was once to become addicted, physically and mentally, to inflict harm upon my own body when my emotions were so built up I didn't know what to do.