I remember the first time I laid my eyes on a razor blade and realizing what it was meant for. I was thirteen, watching a movie with older two neighbor girls. Ironically enough, the movie was called Thirteen. My perspective in the world changed in a single movement. I watched the girl on the television screen take the razor and cut a line into her wrist. It wasn’t the cut or the blood that changed me, it was the breath she let out after the cut, like everything haunting her was released. I wondered to myself, can I do that? How had I never heard of this act before, I didn’t even know it had a name. I never knew that scene would alter my life so drastically.

It wasn’t until January or February of my fifteen year on this planet that I finally took it upon myself to try this weird ritual called cutting. I knew something wasn’t right inside me on Christmas day. Instead of wanting to connect with my family, laughing and enjoying their company, I had no desire to be around anyone. I wanted to spend that day alone, which is exactly what I did. I spent Christmas in my parent’s bed, staring blankly at the TV, feeling like a black hole had swallowed me. Unlike most, my parents accepted my cries for help but like most I was given medication and started therapy for the treatment of the dreaded DEPRESSION.

At fifteen I didn’t have a clear understanding as to what was going on with the chemicals in my brain...