The first time that I felt the thrill.
In my English class, I wasn't thinking, it just happened.
I had wondered for a long time, what it would feel like.
So I put the pencil on my arm.
It danced and glided across my skin and for the first time in a long while, I felt something.
I continued to get the thrill of pain.
Any way I could. Anytime I felt like it.
Sometimes 12 hours a day.
It took a turn for the worst.
My arms, hands and legs were already scarred.
Why not my wrist?
The ultimate statement, something everyone can see for all eternity.
So now I am stuck with five, perfectly straight scars running across my wrist.
But I did it myself. I don't complain.
I can't remember when I stopped. But it lasted about four months.
Then, one of my friends needed help.
She was really stuck. When I went in the dark to drag her out, I fell in.
I started small. Didn't tell anyone.
It was easier that way.
It escalated quickly. I was at my worst.
I had slit my sides, my shoulder, my arms, my legs.
A zipper of cuts dripped down my stomach.
I felt so many things, that I couldn't feel anything.
I acquired a collection of scars all over and I knew that I needed to stop.
Enough was enough.
Stopping the second time was a hell of a lot harder than the first.
As of today, I have been completely clean for a month.
30 days seems like nothing.
But if I can go the first month, I can go for the rest of my life.
I know what cutting is like and I am over it.
Cutting was a great feeling. But nothing compares to the feeling of kicking your addiction in the ***.