Broken butterfly scared and torn flies into a patch of thorns.

Rewind to August my best and only friend moved. After losing another person and my only person I was done. I didn’t want to lose anything anymore. But I didn’t have control over it.
I pick up the scissors. Running them over my pale skin the cool metal gives me the chills. Taking the tip of one of the blades I dig into my skin. I look down nothing but a red puffy mark is there. I dig harder and still nothing.
My dad calls up to me. He is leaving for work. I walk down the stairs in my tank top that completely shows the marks. Hoping he will see them and say something. But he doesn’t notice.
When everyone is up stairs I sneak down stairs to the kitchen. Opening the drawer with the steak knifes. I take one. I walk back up to my room. I take the knife and press it to my arm. I take the tip of the blade and dig into my skin. I look down and nothing is there.

I give up and go to bed. When I wake up the marks look as if they bleed but they didn’t I am happy with the way they look but I didn’t get what I wanted what ever that was.

Three days later I kept repeating what I was doing. Only little scratches show on my skin. I show everyone and tell them my cat did that. When my mom is almost asleep I climb into bed with her.
“Mom?”
“Yes”
“I have to tell you something”
Silence.
“I don’t want you to freak out I only did this for like three days.”
“Go ahead and tell me”
“I cut myself”
“Ok”
That’s only what I remember from the conversation. I know everything was fine. She was not really worried but she set me up with a therapist in a month.

As I sit in my room feeling depressed and angry. One more time I think just one more time just to bleed. I pick up the knife and press it to my upper arm the cold shiny metal feels good on my hot skin. I dig into my arm. I look down nothing is there. No blood nothing but a puffy mark.

Two weeks pass. There is broken glass on the floor of my messy room I pick a piece up. Press it to my upper arm and slide it. I look down and scarlet blood breaks through the cut. I am satisfied. Repeating every two weeks for a month I cut.

October comes I am now cutting everyday. My depression and anger gets deeper. I keep falling into that black hole. The screaming gets louder my mother and I are breaking apart more and more each day. I lie to my therapist when she sees the cuts. She actually believes me. I want my life to end with everyday I spend living it. I never tell my therapist these thoughts.

Into November I am cutting everyday multiple times a day multiple cuts each time. My arms look as if someone had taken a knife and cut me in every direction. This is what I did. I only wore long sleeves or short sleeves with a foodie. Crying myself to sleep almost every night. Walking around an angry mess by day. Looking into my eyes and asking me whets wrong? I say nothing and think everything.

Hearing them talk about me I finally lose it. I am mouthing off to my mother again. Nothing seems different from the fights we normally have.
All I remember was my mom treating to take Taekwondo away from me. (Taekwondo is my life it was one of the tree reasons I didn’t want to die.) The next thing I knew Taekwondo was gone. I remember screaming bloody murder. I had never screamed so loud I was cussing and you couldn’t understand a word I was saying. I stomped up the stairs to my bed room. Stopping to breathe. I slam my bedroom door five times before turn to my wall. I start kicking it as hard as I could. I just wanted to break something. I looked toured my lava lamp. But knew if my parents heard it break I would be in big trouble. So I take a pillow and start to throw it around my room and then slam it into the wall.
After getting a lecher from my dad I take out the three knifes I had stashed in a draw along with a hand full of aspirin and a few pieces of broken glass. I also drag out the suicide note I wrote a few days before. I sit against the side of my bed knife in hand. I cut into my wrist. All it does is scratch skin to I cut the other and it didn’t bleed enough. So I cut the other again and finally it starts to bleed. The blood runs down my arm I pull my sleeves up and walk down the stairs. I tap on my moms shoulder she turns to face me.
“I want to die” I say blankly.
The next thing I know I’m in the hospital being counseled. I didn’t have to stay because they didn’t believe that I truly wanted to die which is true.

I am better. I don’t cut anymore. But I still sit and think about why I cut. I guess it was for attention or maybe a way to release anger. My parents some what trust me? They still think that every time they piss me off I go and cut myself but they don’t search my room. This was something that scared me. I still get suicide thoughts and the depression hasn’t left for good yet. My anger has gotten better.
I guess it was a lesson on how to deal with the depression and anger. I know that cutting doesn’t help and the more I cut the more I got angry and depressed.