Imagine your arms being drenched with blood with excruciating pain only targeting your wrist. While a river of sorrow tears streaming down your face as you lay there practically motionless as if you were a corpse in a puddle of your own blood on the blue bathroom floor. Most people could never picture themselves in such a horrid situation. But then again most people especially teens have already experienced it. Thus, my story of being a cutter begins.

It was my secret, my great shame. I would sit there in my bloody red room playing loud music and waiting. Waiting until I couldn't handle the incredible urge to reach under my mattress and grab my blade. My blade... it was beautiful only in my eyes of course. It was a long blue push up blade that my mother would use to open boxes with. I would press the shiny silver blade against my ghostly pale white skin and pull. As the pain begun to set in the bloody mess would begin. I usually would try to find little reasons to hurt myself. Just to see the blood drip down my arm. Of course no one knew my bad habit. I would constantly use long sleeves and piles of colorful bracelets as cover-ups. I tried to hide the one thing that put me at ease as much as I could but of course the truth eventually slipped out. Apparently I had made a few enemies and somehow they discovered my dirty little secret. Before I knew it my bad habit was spread across the whole school. In the halls a group of girls whom despised me would say under their breathe cutter and stick notes in my locker calling me a street walker and telling me to die. All those things had taken a powerful toll on me and soon I started suffering from depression. I practically cried myself to sleep every night. It eventually became my lullaby. After weeks of the constant taunting and teasing I began to think I was better off dead. So after another horrible day of school was over I went straight to my room, put the stereo full blast as, usual and locked the door. It was like the same routine but different. This time it didn't take as long for me to get the incredibly strong urge that I could never fight off. Once I locked my door I rushed to retrieve my blade from under my mattress. As I sat there in the corner, I closed my eyes and let the tears flow as I slit my wrists. Over the veins my blade glided like a graceful ice skater skating on the smooth ice. It was the deepest cut the I had ever done to myself. The red river of blood never stopped flowing. So I reached into my dresser and grabbed a small white towel and cleaned up the drips of blood that had fallen upon the cold gray floor and placed it over my fresh wound. As I lay there on my bed tears had begun flowing down my face once again. The second I closed my eyes the thought of me never waking up filled my mind. I had begun to smile. Merely because it seemed by killing myself I would please all the people around me. Hours went by and sadly I had awoken from what I thought would had been my eternal slumber.

Months had passed since that incident and still my bad habit continued and worsened. As the days went by like passing cars in the street I slowly started realizing what I was doing was wrong and completely useless. It had taken awhile to sink in but I realized that cutting wasn't the only way I could deal with my problems and that I needed help. It took almost two years with the help of my friends and family to be able to say, "I'm better" "I'm happy." And the saying "Old habits die hard" is extremely true it's hard to stop something that you're accustom do doing every single day. Some people think that people that cut themselves are only trying to get attention but the truth is that people that cut themselves do it only to stop their emotional pain. Cutting is the only pain they can control. It doesn't matter how long I go without cutting myself I will always and forever be a cutter. I am what I was then. I am what I am now.