My story begins early this year, 2016, in around March.
My friends and I have always been very close. We're not a clique or anything, and we're always welcome to inviting others into our group, but it's true that where you see one of us, another is never far behind.
Usually we're not the type to keep secrets from each other. But as we grow up, we change along with our surroundings.
One of my friends had taken to skipping lunch with us, saying she would eat in the classrooms instead. Since this was normal, we shrugged it off as nothing big. The only time I started getting suspicions was when one day I went to join her, and she wasn't where she'd said she would be.
A few weeks later, in the middle of gym, she and two others of my group were sitting on a bench talking, while I and another of my friends were practicing our badminton 'skills'. However, we were watching them out the corner of our eye. So when we saw our friend get up and go sit at the other end of the gym, we knew something wasn't right. Dropping our rackets, we went over to our friends who were seated on the bench and asked to know what was going on.
It was a shock to be informed that our friend in question had cut herself. One of the girls in our group had seen a scar on her wrist and had confronted her about it; thus the revelation. And so, we all went over to her and begged her as one to stop. She stayed clean for about another week, but then she cut again. This time, I alone confronted her about it. She told me it wasn't easy, that once you started you couldn't stop. She wanted to run away, she hated herself, she thought she was disgusting and unworthy of any love whatsoever.
Somehow, I convinced her to stop. What I did, I have no idea how it worked, but it was that I revealed to her a deep, dark secret In have never shared with anyone else, and I still am not ready to. I told her that regardless of that secret, I loved her to the needs of the Earth and that I would do anything within my ability to help her stay clean. As far as I know, she has remained clean to this day.
But the story doesn't end there.
Before this whole situation, it had never even crossed my mind to cut. I've never once looked at a knife with a thought other than chopping up vegetables.
Sometime in April, I was feeling extremely put down. My grades weren't meeting up to my expectations, my stepdad countered every little thing I said, my mom made it her duty to insult me and hit me every single day, not even any exaggerations. I even made a list of the things she called me, and read it to myself over and over every night, crying myself to sleep. I felt worthless and unloved, seeing as I'm not the type of girl boys fall in love with.
And I thought, well, if she can cut, why can't I? It was kind of like her cutting situation gave me permission to start my own.
I finally decided to fulfill the act when my mother was especially harsh to me one day. She said her ears were not a toilet to her mouth, that she regretted having me, that I would go to hell, that there could not be a dumber idiot on Earth than me, stuff like that. She hit me a lot that day, more than usual. She even hit me because I changed out of a dress before taking out the garbage. Looking back, I feel disgusted towards myself because there are people who go through so much worse, and that this was nothing.
Anyway, I stayed up until everyone was asleep. Then I crept into the kitchen, opened the drawer, took out out the sharpest kitchen knife I could find, and slid it across my wrist. I expected there to be blood, a scratch, anything, but there wasn't even a trace. Angry and frustrated, I slit the knife across the same place again and again, until at last blood began to show. Not much, but enough to satisfy me.
And no one even noticed it. It was strange — part of me longed for someone to ask me about it, another part of me feared what would happen if they did. When the scar was almost healed, I cut it again. When my mom finally noticed it and confronted me about it, I told her there had been an accident involving scissors in my art class.
I told my friends about it about a week later, on Wattpad. Only two of them saw, the two who I have also helped get through their depression (and still am). They were upset for me, but we didn't cry over it. We all know what the pain feels like.
I still get depressed, though I've never talked to any adult about it, never taken medicine, never seen a doctor. There are still days I want to cut, and the temptation is terribly strong. I am thirteen going on fourteen, and it hasn't even been a year. I still have that scar on my wrist. I haven't ever hidden it from anyone, yet no one else has asked how I got it.
My story is different from others, because I actually never cut again. I defied what my friend said, 'once you cut, you can't stop'. The truth is, yes, you can. And if you need help, there will always be people out there ready with open arms. I know I am. My inbox is always open, and I'm only a button away. With the collaboration of us all, the world will truly have no more scars.
