‘WOW. I bet ur pissed!’

That one message was all it took to finally break me. At first I was extremely confused. I didn’t understand what the boy meant. I’d had an okay day, went out for coffee with some friends after school, and was now on my way home. I was used to people messing with me at school, but this was different. I questioned the person to find out what in the world he was talking about. He went on to inform me that someone had posted nasty things about me on Facebook. This too confused me. I didn’t bother anyone at school, I didn’t say anything bad about someone or say much at all for that matter, but that didn’t stop my tears. The person sent me a link to the page. Even though I wasn’t driving, my friend parked his car in a vacant lot and held my hand while I cried and tried to figure this out.

Someone had indeed posted a lot of very mean things about me. Most of it wasn’t even true. I tried to contact the person who posted it and get them to take it down, but they had blocked my account. In that moment I felt broken, like I was a cracked tile on the floor of a crowded building and millions of people were walking on top of me.

Comments started piling up on the post. Not one person defended me. People I thought were my friends went along with the crowd, commenting hateful slander. Someone commented something about my scars. The scars I have are not emotional, nor were they accidents. Covering my wrist and thighs are thin little scars left behind from a struggle with self-harm.

The moment I got home, I rushed to my room and began to carefully rummage through my jewelry box. When I found what I was looking for, I locked myself in the bathroom and ran a hot bath. I lay there in the steaming hot water, clutching the thin sliver of metal. ‘No one will care.’ I thought. ‘No one ever cares.’ I could hear my cell phone playing the ringtone of my closest friends. I didn’t look to see who was calling, I just answered.

“Don’t do it. I saw the post, and I know that tone in your voice. Calm down, I’m on my way over. I’ve got you some dinner and I can see your driveway. Get dressed and open the door.” It was my ex-boyfriend, the last person I expected to hear from. We didn’t work out as a couple, but we were best friends.

I slowly drug myself back to my room so I could throw on a hoodie and sweatpants. I carefully put the razor back into my jewelry box and went to go open the door. He brought me my favorite food, and held me while I ate and cried, then talked to me about how he got the post taken down. He said that things would get better; I just had to give it time. I just had to keep holding on.