At thirteen I lost the greatest woman in my life. My grandmother was the strongest woman I knew.
That was when I started creating art with razors on my wrists and my thighs, thinking about how she'd hate me if she saw how weak I was when she was so strong.

At fifteen my uncle was diagnosed with stage IV esophagus cancer. It felt like I was falling when standing still. Three months later he was gone.

At sixteen I had a bad feeling at school. Something was wrong and I could feel it. They said I was crazy, that everything was fine. The night prior my uncle ended his life.
The art with the razors became more frequent.

At eighteen I was in a verbally abusive relationship and felt trapped. I met my best friend, and she saved me. She helped me free myself from him.

At nineteen I lost two friends two weeks apart to car accidents. It felt like everything was spinning and I was screaming and nobody could hear me. But nobody came, because nobody saw I was dying inside.

At twenty a person in my town died in a hiking accident. The whole town came together to mourn the loss of an amazing person.

I'm putting down my razors.
The art must stop.
If I continue, the art will be the death of me.
So I write.