At A Glance
Author	babydoll
Contact	brainstew_girl@hotmail.com
IAM	babydoll
When	N/A

I was fourteen. I had discovered the internet, one escape, drinking, another escape, and cutting, my most common escape.

I would fight with my mom, the same way lots of teenagers fight with their parents. Over being fat, clothes, food, school, and boyfriends, or girlfriends for that matter. She had met another man. I hated him.

She would go over to his house, on Vancouver Island, and visit him on weekends. I would go out and get so drunk I would forget where I lived. That was to get away from being left alone I guess, I don't really know.

When he would come over to visit us though, it was totally different. He thought that he was some kind of father figure in my life. He wasn't he was my moms boyfriend, nothing more. He had no power over me. And because he thought he did I got right pissed off.

The three of us would yell at each other. He would tell me to get my shit together, that I needed to grow up or something like that. I was angry and wasn't really listening. My mom tried her best to calm me down. She wanted me to be happy. She wanted us to be able to mend into some sort of happy family. I thought she was crazy.

I locked myself in the bathroom. He picked the lock, but I had the drawer and cupboard open so no one could get in. He banged and yelled and screamed. I answered back with two simple words "Fuck off". I sat myself down on the floor, and began to pick at the skin on my hand. I scratched it at first because it was itchy, but it felt good. I continued to scratch it. The skin on my hand was raw. It matched the way I felt. Raw, and angry, bright red.

I guess that was the first time.

Anytime I would be upset or unsure of how I felt I would scratch myself to bleed. Then, I picked up an exacto knife blade. I dragged it along my thigh, it felt great. Perfect, the way I needed to feel. Exposed with no pants on, and blood dripping down me.

I never cried. No one ever saw me cry. And I realized that I sometimes needed to let it all go, and just cry. Just be vulnerable for once in my life. But my tears were drops of red that marked my skin every few days, when things got to be too much.

The only time I ever let anyone see what I had done to myself was in July. No one was home. I finished off a couple bottles of Advil, Tylenol and some other pill. Picked up the razor blade, went to slice my wrists. And failed.

I failed. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do what I had wanted to do for months now. So I sliced my arm up, 13 or 14 slices, somewhat deep. I kept hoping that the pills would kick in that I would lose too much blood and die, that there was some kind of overdose that would happen to me.

I didn't want my mom to find me. So I left. I walked to where I always hung out. Sat down, and waited to death to come to me. I was hoping it would anyway. I tried to keep my arm wet, so the blood wouldn't dry. It didn't work too well.

Andrew showed up. Told me I was bleeding and should go clean myself up. I didn't go at first, but he said he would wait for me. I cried as I walked through the doors to the public pool and a little girl looked up at me and asked if I was alright. Someone I didn't even know noticed that I wasn't okay. I kept crying, both tears and blood.

I cleaned myself up. And threw on a sweater so no one else would see. I went and talked to Andrew who said that it was okay, if I wanted to talk. I didn't.

It wasn't the last time I cut. I still do it from time to time, when I can't let my emotions show. I still let the tears of red slither down my body. But it was the last time I thought about killing myself. It will be the last time I chicken out of something like that, because I won't try it anymore.

My mom and I moved in with her boyfriend on the Island, and they got married. We're not a typical happy family, mostly because there's no such thing. I still lock myself away every once in awhile, and of course there are screaming matches through out the house. Everyone's trying to compete with each other. Trying to win some sort of trophy that doesn't really exist.

My scars still exist. My cutting still exists, and the fact that people deal with things in different ways. It makes us who we are, and it gets us through times that confuse us.

It's not something I recommend. But sometimes there isn't another choice. And I understand that. Finally.