The first time I self-harmed, I was 13 years old.

It was a summer day like any other. I was strolling in the flowers and trees. I could hear my mother’s laugh in the distance. Everything was so peaceful.

Except me.

Every cell in my body was boiling. My mind was screaming. I could feel this incontrollable rage slowly take over me. The pain was unbearable. Something was building and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I couldn’t.

So, I grabbed the sharpest stone I could find and I scratched it against my skin until I saw blood.

Bright red blood rolling down my pale arm.

I stopped.

I stared down at my bruised arm for a few minutes. The pain was gone. It was over.

The stone dropped and I ran inside.

What have I done?

Without being seen, I washed my arm vigorously. The red disappeared. It would be okay. I just fell, right?

Nothing happened if I make it disappear.

I just fell.

—

I was 16 when it became a habit.

I thought the pain would go away and I would never have to relive it. But it didn’t go away. It only grew stronger and stronger. I tried to bury it away.

I was okay, right?

Nothing worked. The pain took over my body little by little until I felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was slowly dying.

But I knew how to make the pain go away.

So, when I saw pieces of a broken frame in my living room that my mom had probably forgotten to throw away, it felt like a sign. It was calling for me.

I was alone. It was perfect.

I grabbed a piece and locked myself in the bathroom.

Glass was sharper than stones, it would cut deeper. The pain was stronger than before. It would help.

Once the blade touched my skin, I knew there would be no going back.

Red against white.

It felt so liberating.

The pain disappeared like last time. I knew there would be a price to pay but I was willing to pay it.

I heard the door opened. I had to go. The blade would wait.

—

At 17, the blade couldn’t wait.

I quickly replaced the broken glass with a box cutter. It was neater and stronger. The pain grew and grew and this was the only thing capable of keeping up with it.

The more pressure, the more blood, the more the pain would go away.

But the pain was never truly gone. Only relieved a little for a few hours. And I would be drowning again.

The noise in my head never stopped. The rage and helplessness in my veins were still burning, become stronger every day. I was like a ticking bomb. The blade helped. It became my lifeline, my deliverance, my prison.

Cutting was like a drug. It was intoxicating. I always needed more. It was never enough.

Deeper and deeper.

I couldn’t stop.

My arms were a battlefield. More red than white. There was no time for healing, a new cut would always appear.

Long-sleeves, bracelets and band-aids became essential.

In time, my hips were marked too.

As the summer approached, my fear grew. As did the pain.

It got unbearable. The blood wasn’t enough. I needed more.

I was suffocating.

I was drowning.

I was lost.

It was too much.

I knew I had to do something before there would be no way out.  

—

The day of my 18^th birthday, my sister took a picture of me. I’m sitting in the grass, smiling; and I’m wearing a sleeveless dress.

The marks are still here but they’re not a bright red. They’re healing.

—

The blade was put away. But never too far.

I am 23 years old and it’s been a long, long road. I have relapsed more times than I could count.

The pain always came back and it still does, but I have learned how to deal with it in healthier ways. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. The blade is always here.

One day, it will be completely gone. I am getting stronger and stronger. In time, I will beat this.

—

Today, I am 10 months clean from self-harm.

It’s been 11 years since I first put a blade to my skin. I’ve come a long way.

I can’t promise that this time it will be okay.

But I’m fighting. I’ve made it this far.

I’m not going to give up now.